


The Braithwaite Secret

by oheart



Series: The Braithwaite Secret [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Protective Arthur Morgan, Spoilers for both games, Symbolism, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love, Witch Curses, arthur is plagued by honor and guilt, john carries a torch and it's the only light in the world, undying cowboy love that does not bow to the laws of man nor nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-15 04:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17521847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oheart/pseuds/oheart
Summary: "well, look down yonder gabriel, put your feet on the land and seebut gabriel don't you blow your trumpet, 'til you hear it from me.there ain't no grave can hold my body down.".— Johnny Cash, Ain't No Grave."No matter how many bullets or blades pierced his skin, John could never find rest. Whatever wrongness inside of him that had made Hell spit him back out, had also made him impossible to kill. Cursed to wander strange lands, with nothing but his own guilt for company."





	1. I put a spell on you, because you're mine

**Author's Note:**

> this started as an innocent self indulgent day dream, that quickly grew into a healthy 19k word monster baby.
> 
> the working title of this bad boy was "what if ain't no grave and work song had a love child" and i can only hope it shows :')

### 1899

The heat from the burning mansion was already unbearable, as Dutch dragged the screaming woman down the front steps. John was sweating under his coat. His throat burned from the smoke. They all watched, impassively, when Dutch pointed his gun down at Catherine Braithwaite. 

“My sons, _my sons_. You killed my _sons_!” The woman wailed over and over, as her house burned to ashes. 

All they’d wanted was Jack and she’d already given that information. Her sons had handed the boy to some rich man in Saint Denis by the name of Angelo Bronte. John cursed inwardly and wished he could bring the Braithwaite bastards back to life just to kill them all over again. Dutch was pressing her for more information, but the woman had clearly lost her mind to grief and was long past reasoning. 

“All my boys, my sweet boys,” she moaned like a wounded animal, raking her fingers through her hair, her face. Fingernails leaving bloody tracks. John wanted to leave. They still needed to find Jack; the boy had to be scared out of his mind. “You will pay for this. Ah, you will. You will suffer for this.” 

“Oh, we shall suffer, for all men must. But not for this, Mrs. Braithwaite.” Dutch moved to pull his gun away, but she moved faster, wrapping her hands around the long barrel of his revolver. She pressed the muzzle against her own forehead, kneeling up in front of Dutch. John made quick eye contact with Arthur. The other man looked as puzzled as John felt. 

“You killed my sons, you burned their bones. My children will never find their way back to life again,” she wailed as her eyes lit up with some feverish purpose, reflecting the pyre burning tall above them, “and for that, _your sons_ shall never find death. They shall never feel warmth again. No fire will ever thaw their bones,” her voice seemed to scratch its way out of her throat, high and awful, “may the sons of Dutch van der Linde wander these lands, impervious to others and everlasting. No bullet nor blade shall take them from this world,” her eyes suddenly leapt to John’s with startling intensity. “They will never know rest... but they will know pain,” her smile was more like an open cut on her bloody face. “Oh, they will know pain.” 

Dutch yanked his gun away. For once, he seemed to have run out of witty remarks. He holstered it and turned away. “Let's go, boys.” 

Arthur’s eyes found John’s as Dutch passed between them. “What about the woman.” 

“Can’t you see, Arthur? Her mind is gone, she’s dead already.” Dutch mounted The Count and the two men followed suit. “Let’s get out of here. I need to discuss with Hosea about this Bronte feller.” 

John pulled at Old Boy’s reins and the three men turned to ride away from the scene. He risked a last look over his shoulder. The mansion was nothing but a fiery ruin. The flames seemed to grow taller with every second, licking at the sky with furious red tongues. Catherine Braithwaite was a shadowy silhouette standing before the pyre. Her arms open, as if to greet the inferno in front of her. John eyes snapped back to the road ahead of him. He sworn he could still hear the Braithwaite woman’s laughter as the burning mansion disappeared behind them. 

 

* * *

 

They found Angelo Bronte. He had Jack, until they made sure he didn’t anymore. He tricked them and strung them along for a while, until they fixed that, too. When John, Arthur and Dutch left Saint Denis, the city was missing one rich bastard and the swamps had a happy, well-fed crocodile. 

Something was coming loose inside Dutch, uncoiling slowly like a serpent coming out of its day time slumber. John could see it in his actions and in his eyes. But, in that moment, Jack was back with his mother and both were safe. And he and Arthur were alive, despite the world’s best attempts. And, for a while, that was enough. 

 

 

### #### 

Cold. Cold and darkness, was all he could sense. The whole world was gone, he was floating somewhere awful and empty. He tried to move, but he couldn’t feel his body. He had no legs, no arms, no voice. He couldn’t breathe or scream for help, for he had no lungs nor mouth. He couldn’t see because his eyes were closed, but he had no eyelids, no eyes. He was nothing and there was nothing. Nothing, but the feeling of overwhelming dread. The knowledge that something was very wrong and that he should be afraid. 

He remained like that for hours, days, a lifetime or maybe just a second. Time could not be grasped here, but the cold and the fear were endless. Until they weren’t. 

 

 

### 1999

The man didn’t recall falling asleep, but suddenly, he was awake. 

He gasped in the narrow space. The man’s arms were tucked at his sides, his legs pressed together. When the man tried to move, his shoulders and elbows knocked against the walls around him. He tried to sit, but the ceiling was too low. He could barely move his head enough to look down at his feet. His breathing grew faster. His hands went up instinctively to push at the obstacle above him, trying to make room. He just needed some space to breathe. Why was the ceiling so low? He couldn’t move. He couldn’t see. It was too dark and narrow. His lungs were working faster now, but there wasn’t enough air in the room. 

The man’s knuckles brushed against wood. 

It was old, humid and rotten. His legs started to kick at the walls around him as he began to trash in the tight space. As panic sat within him, reality became clearer. He began to trash harder, kicking and punching at the wood the best he could. Every strike would splinter the boards, causing chunks of dark wet earth to slip through the cracks, covering his face and body. 

The man was screaming. A wordless croaky sound. 

The wood caved and a suffocating wall of dirt followed. There was no screaming, now. Or breathing, or seeing. All the man could do was dig. His arms, legs, throat and eyes were burning. He couldn’t tell if his eyelids were open or not, but it didn’t matter. He kept digging. He dug, until he couldn’t feel his limbs. The burning gave way to numbness, as the coldness of the worm-infested earth bled into his bones. It was as if he had no body, no voice, no lungs. Nothing else existed, but the cold and the fear that drove him forward. 

The man breached the surface with a desperate gasp, shaking and sobbing like a newborn. Then, he vomited. Bile and dirt seeping back into the ground. He looked at his hands, covered in dirt, knuckles scraped and bloody. He stood on shaky legs and inhaled a lungful of air. It came back out as laughter, ugly and violent. 

The man took an uncertain step forward. When his legs didn’t collapse under him, he took another. And then, another. Until he was braving into the night, leaving his own grave behind. 

 

* * *

 

The man wandered aimlessly, not knowing who he was or where he was going. If he had any memories from before the grave, they were beyond his grasp, locked away behind a foggy wall inside his brain, that he couldn’t seem to breach. He was too tired to try, anyway. He could only see shadows, blurry silhouettes. A boy, maybe his younger self, or maybe someone else. A pale man, riding on a pale horse. A young man’s laughter, filling the world with warmth. Gunshots. A woman’s scream. A fire so bright, it hurt to look at it. He closed his mind's eye to the fog. It was too draining to try and peer through it. 

He walked until he spotted a building by the side of a road. The sight of it sent a feeling of intrinsic wrongness through the man. But most things felt new and unfamiliar to him, so he pressed forward. The front door had an odd glossy sign on it. It said OPEN, in big black letters. He pushed the door open and frowned when it appeared to be entirely made of glass. He looked around. It seemed to be a shop of some sort, with an overwhelming number of shelves filling most of the space. The man eyed the items displayed, but they meant nothing to him. 

The building was so aggressively illuminated, it was like the light was pouring from every inch of the ceiling. It seemed to bounce on the walls and the floor, washing the room in a glaring whiteness that nearly blinded him. 

The man stumbled, knocking against something or someone that he couldn’t see. He clutched his head as a sharp pain went through his skull. Suddenly, there were people around him. They looked so strange. Their clothes were all wrong, but the man couldn’t say why. The walls were covered in bright colorful signs. Everything looked and smelled jarring and askew. Someone was touching his shoulder. 

He moved away and fell to the ground. His head hurt. The wall inside his brain that had looked like milky fog, now turned into a solid block. And it was cracking. Gigantic fractures spread across its surface, making a colossal sound like thunder. Like dynamite going off. Like a derailing train. Like a thousand screams. 

The man heaved, wincing as a lifetime rushed through the cracks, a conglomerate of images, sounds and smells, filling his brain faster than he could keep up with. When it was over, he slumped to the ground, exhausted. 

Someone was talking to him. Asking what was wrong. Asking his name. 

The man gasped, feeling a soul-deep grief crush his bones, suffocating him worse than his own coffin ever could. 

“Marston. My name is John Marston.” 

 

 

### 2005 

John woke up with the monotonous ringing of his alarm. He turned it off with a press of his finger and got up, silently. The old bed creaking under his weight was the only sound in the room. He marched to the adjoining bathroom, starting his morning routine with mechanical purpose. Shower, brush teeth, get dressed. Rinse and repeat. 

John regarded his fridge for something to eat. He didn’t really enjoy meals anymore, but he had learned a long time ago that food was still needed to sustain his body. The act of eating was akin to filling a car’s tank to him. A necessary nuisance to maintain a machine in working condition. There was bread and butter and juice made from some fruit. Orange, his brain provided, after a moment. Most things tasted the same to him. 

He ate, got his keys from the hook on the wall and moved to the front door. He stopped at the full body mirror in the entryway, checking if he hadn’t forgotten anything. Shirt, pants, belt, shoes. Check. Cellphone, wallet, keys. Check. A hundred years ago, there would’ve been a hat on his head and a gun on his hip. A hundred years ago, it would’ve been a man looking back at him, not a ghost wearing his scars. John unlocked the door and stepped outside. 

It was getting chilly again. A sign that autumn must’ve been coming to an end, giving way to winter one more time. John couldn’t help but lose track of the passage of time, sometimes. He picked up the jacket he kept in his old honda civic and put it on. The car had already been old when John bought it, a 1990 model, but it still served him well. As usual, the jacket did nothing to abate the cold, but John had quickly realized the importance of keeping an appearance of normalcy. 

He drove to work. The same place where all this started – this last, but never-ending long night of his. The place was a small store by the side of a solitary road. A convenience store, they called it. The owner, a woman in her forties named Mrs. O’Connor, had almost called the law on John that night six years ago, when he stumbled into her store, incoherent and covered in graveyard dirt. 

She took pity on him, though. Or something close enough to it. She’d confided that she had a brother like him. A veteran, she’d said, the nightmares, flashbacks, the memory gaps, I know what that’s like, she’d told John, taking him by the arm and helping him get cleaned up. She’d assumed John had been abandoned by his family and had been sleeping rough. He didn’t have it in him to correct her, especially when she offered him a job, something he didn’t have the habit of refusing. 

It was only years later that John learned the whole story about her brother. The man had come back from a new war overseas, but he was different. Withdrawn, paranoid. Their parents moved him to a brand-new house, thinking he needed the space. Until he put his own gun in his mouth and painted the spotless new walls with his brains. 

John knew, then, why Mrs. O’Conner had helped him so easily, no questions asked. John was vaguely aware that the phrase ‘try not to feel guilty about it’ should apply here. But the truth was that he had tried his damned best to feel guilty about it, just to feel something. 

Mrs. O’Connor was already at the counter when John arrived. She smiled at him, over one of her gossip magazines. Her brown hair was slowly graying and she had kind almond eyes. John nodded at her in greeting. The store had a medium to low traffic of people on most days. It was the only man-made building bordering the road for hours in either direction, so occasionally drivers would stop by to buy gas or food or to use the bathroom. 

The most constant patrons, though, were the hunters and small ranchers who lived further into the woods. Mrs. O’Connor’s store was their only source of food and other supplies for miles. Also, the big blue mail box sitting outside the store served as a communal mail box for all the residences out there in the woods. So, most of them showed up pretty regularly, for one reason or another. 

It was barely 8a.m., though, so the store was deserted. John proceeded with his work. Cleaning the shelves. Mopping the floor. Tagging the prices. Rinse and repeat. 

 

 

### 1894 

Arthur wasn’t looking at him. He’d been avoiding John. Ducking out of jobs where John was involved, staying out of their camp a lot more than usual. The two of them used to be attached at the hip, even before this thing between them started. And now, Arthur wouldn’t even look at him. 

John missed him. These days, even when they were together like this, alone in a tiny makeshift camp in the middle of the wilderness, nothing between them but a warm fire, it still felt like they were miles apart. Like Arthur was slipping farther and farther away and there was nothing John could do but watch. 

John wanted to reach out and touch him. Pull him in, kiss him. Knock Arthur’s hat to the ground and rake his fingers through his short blond hair. Or punch him. Grab Arthur by the collar and hiss _‘where do you think you’re going? Come back here. Who said you could just walk away and leave me here, after everything?’_ John curled his hands into fists and did neither of those things. 

Deep down, John knew what had caused that rift between them. Abigail. Or, to be fair: John, putting a baby in her and effectively ruining her life as well as his own. John didn’t want to be a father. Nor was he made for that. He was as rotten as they came. His own father had been an evil bastard and, as much as John had fought against it, he knew that whatever it was that separated good men from bad, he had been born on the wrong side already. 

It was in his blood, his soul. 

John had been killing and stealing for as long as he could remember. John’s father had taught him how to shoot a gun before ever bothering to tell him his dead mother’s name. John had killed his first man before he learned how to read. He found out what a rope felt like around his neck long before learning the taste of someone else’s lips. Before Arthur, he had known how to make a man bleed and beg, but not how to make one laugh and sigh under him. 

He wasn’t made for nurturing and he definitively wasn’t a good example for any kid. Whether the baby was really his or not, being around John would only taint them. Make them twisted and rotten inside like John was. John prayed once again that the kid was someone else’s. They’d be doomed otherwise. 

Arthur was different. He was a good man. Despite the life they lived, he never let it ruin who he was. Arthur had as much blood on his hands as any of them, but at the end of the day he could wash it off his skin before it seeped into his chore. Or at least that’s what it looked like to John. He’d been watching Arthur for a whole decade now. Looking up to him. Learning from him. To John, Arthur was the kind of men who could have had a family if the circumstances had been different. 

A wife, children and a dog in a ranch somewhere. He could almost picture it. Arthur teaching his son how to ride. Arthur placing his hand on his wife’s swollen belly, smiling peacefully. John squeezed his eyes shut against those images. He knew Arthur had almost had that once, a long time ago, before John came along. Arthur never talked about it, but John had heard it from Mrs. Grimshaw once. 

It was just another way in which John wasn’t a good enough man. There could never be a future like that for him. The wilderness was his home. He only felt like himself with his gun at his side and a mission ahead of him. And, for as long as he could remember, he’d only ever wanted Arthur. John would never have a wife. He had tried to fight his own nature with Abigail and other women, but it was stronger than him. 

John wondered if Arthur thought about it often. Having a real family. If Arthur wanted that and resented John for needing him here. If maybe he resented John for having the chance to form a family now, but not wanting it. 

John knew better than to dwell on these thoughts. But they were like a knife, searing and hungry, that he couldn't help but twist. 

John looked up and caught Arthur staring hard at him. Something right, or maybe just wrong enough, must’ve shown on his face because Arthur didn’t look away this time. 

“We need to talk.” 

And with those four little words, John felt Arthur slip just a little further away. 

“This thing between us. It ain’t right,” Arthur continued, staring at the fire between them. His tone was monotonous, like they were discussing whose can of beans to open for dinner, “You got a family now. You need to take care of them from now on.” His voice grew a little harder when John tried to argue. “That's a good thing, Marston. We’ve talked about this.” 

They had talked about it. About three years ago when they’d gone on a hunting trip much like this one. It had started to rain and John hadn’t packed his own tent, so they had to share. Sharing had never been a problem for them. Except John had been dealing with some terrifying feelings regarding himself and Arthur. He knew what it was. Had heard of men who were hanged for it, but he couldn’t help it. The more he had tried to avoid those feelings, the more he felt them. 

That night, John had awakened before dawn, startled. Mortified to realize he had rolled into Arthur’s space and had been holding onto the man and moving his hips against his side in his sleep. John had been about to move away, out of the tent, to go anywhere but there, when Arthur’s hands had slowly come up to soothe him. It’s alright, John, it happens. I’m not mad, Arthur had murmured in the darkness. 

Maybe it had been the reassurance, how Arthur was always so kind to John when it mattered. Maybe it had been Arthur’s sleepy voice, so close to his ear. Or just the peer pressure of holding all these feelings inside for so long, like trying to catch a swarm of bees in a jar. Whatever it was, John had found himself leaning forward and kissing Arthur. Slow and easy, like he wasn’t afraid at all. 

Saying Arthur had been surprised was an understatement. He’d stood that for a moment, until John had pressed him back down and straddled his hips. The acknowledge that John really wanted that seemed to be the permission Arthur had been looking for. He had licked at John’s lips, at his tongue. John had instinctively sucked on Arthur’s tongue when it pressed inside his mouth, drawing a surprised moan from the other man. They’d kissed like that for a while, Arthur letting John call the shots. Until Arthur had rolled them, covering John’s body with his own. 

“Let me take care of you, John,” Arthur had whispered hotly in John’s ear, moving down to kiss his jaw, his neck. “I want,” Arthur’s hands were grabbing at John’s hips, his ribs, dragging John’s shirt up his torso. Then moving back down to his tights, like he wanted to touch John all over. “I want to make you feel so good, John,” Arthur had murmured so low, almost to himself, before untying John’s pants and slithering down his body, leaving hot kisses on his wake. 

John had moaned like he was being gutted when Arthur wrapped his lips around his cock. It was too much. It was everything John wanted and still way beyond anything he could’ve ever imagined. John gasped wildly. His hand had shot down to clutch at Arthur’s hair, while Arthur’s own hands massaged the underside of his thigh and his balls. The hand on his thigh inched further down, thumb caressing the crease between John’s thigh and his ass. 

In comparison, that touch had seemed so innocent, but it had lit a fire in John’s belly, nonetheless. He’d choked down a sob, when Arthur had sucked at the head of his cock. Arthur had then sunk lower, and then back up again, his tongue pressing against the underside of John’s cock the whole time. John had felt his toes curling from the pleasure of it all. When Arthur had sucked on the head a second time, John had thrown his head back and came, sudden and wild. 

Later, Arthur had whispered reassurances and promises in his ear, as John brought him off with his hands. 

In the morning, things had been different, though. Arthur had been shaky and distant. He had made John swear he would never let what they were doing get in the way of his own life. That when John found himself a woman, he would forget all about Arthur. Even then, John had known that that would never happen. So, he had agreed, naïve and satisfied that Arthur seemed to be willing to do it again. 

John was regretting that now, though. 

“It’s better this way. For everyone,” Arthur finished. 

“The hell it is!” John was on his feet, infuriated by Arthur’s calm. “What about what I want? What about you and me?” 

Arthur got up, too. Green eyes burning. “I should be the one asking that,” he hissed through clenched teeth. John frowned in confusion. Arthur looked away, rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, John,” he switched his stance, visibly trying to calm himself. “We’ve all made our choices, now we have to live with them. You have Abigail and your kid to look after. I, I have my duty to the gang. We both knew this wasn’t a permanent thing. We ain’t kids. I’m. I’m not interested in these games no more.” 

“ _Games?_ ” If John was honest with himself, he always thought this would happen. Deep down, he knew one day Arthur would find the right woman and he’d have to step aside so Arthur could begin the life he deserved. He just never expected it to be quite like this. Arthur pushing him away because he was bored with him. John wanted to kick himself for not seeing it coming. 

Arthur grabbed his rifle and set down to clean it. “Get on your horse and ride back to camp, John,” He wasn’t even looking at John anymore. “I can finish this up by myself. Go patch things up with your woman. Be a man, for once.” 

_Be a man, for once_ , John thought, packing his things and mounting on his horse. He bit his lip raw to distract himself from how much those words hurt, coming from Arthur.


	2. weight of my heart, not the size

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "ain't found a way to kill me yet,  
> eyes burn with stinging sweat.  
> seems every path leads me to nowhere"  
> \- rooster
> 
>  
> 
> "am i wrong?  
> have i run too far to get home?  
> have i gone?"  
> \- would

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is a shorter, but heavy one, lads. relevant warnings located in the end notes, for those who want to avoid spoilers.

### 1999

John had been drinking. A lot. It was New Year’s Eve and the sounds of fireworks and drunken celebration had been rattling his windows and his brain all night. 

To be fair, he had been drinking since morning, though. He’d had a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. John couldn’t recall it, but he’d woken up shivering, with his heart in his throat and frost in chest. 

John felt hollow. Impossibly heavy. His heart was a black mass, gnawing at his own insides until there was nothing left. Growing monstrously. Taking up space in his ribcage, ugly and inflated. So heavy, John could barely move, could barely get his body out of bed in the morning. 

He had been thinking about Arthur a lot. 

Day drinking sort of became a habit for him. 

John supposed most people would consider themselves lucky to be able to experience two turns of the century, and still be in their thirties. Lucky. Arthur would can him that all the time when they were younger. It was kind of a running gag for them. John was always getting himself in the most improbable dicey situations. Like he had a magnet for trouble buried somewhere deep within him. But he always got out alive. Usually, thanks to Arthur. 

And now he was facing yet another brand-new century without him. 

And all the others after that. 

It had taken John a lot of booze and desperation to accept the truth: he couldn't die. He knew that now. Whatever wrongness inside of him that had made Hell spit him back out, had also made him impossible to kill. Hell did not want John Marston back. He was stuck here for good. He had the scar on the back of his skull to prove it. He scratched at it with blunt fingernails. There it was. Hidden underneath his long hair, a round patch of scar of barely two inches. 

It had happened two months after clawing out of the grave. John had been drinking that night, too. He’d bought a handgun right after getting his month’s salary. Mrs. O’Connor paid him in cash, bless her heart. The gun was smoother and different from any pistol John had ever seen. But it’d still do the trick. John had bought it in the same place where he bought his liquor. In cash, no documentation needed. Texas was truly a wonderful place. 

John had gone home. Drank half a bottle of cheap vodka and eaten his tasteless leftover pizza, cold - he hadn’t learned how to use the microwave back then yet. And sat in front of the tv. It had been playing a “Friends rerun” and John had no fucking clue what that meant. John had put the barrel of the gun inside his mouth. It was a solid weight and he couldn’t taste anything beyond the vodka. The characters on the tv had been struggling to push a comically large turkey out of someone’s head. 

John remembered chuckling helplessly around the gun before pulling the trigger and splattering his brain on the wall behind him. 

Or so he thought. 

John had awoken a feel hours later. Someone was selling jewels on the tv. There had been blood all over his shirt, his hair. Blood on the wall and on the couch. But John himself had looked unharmed. Completely healed. He’d drunk the rest of the bottle with shaky hands and spent the night scraping pieces of his own brain from the wall and the furniture. 

The following morning, a stag had been grazing outside John’s house. John lived near the woods. The fence around the property had long been run down by the vegetation when John moved in. He never bothered to fix it. It was the first time he spotted an animal this close to the house, though. It had looked right at him when John opened the door to step outside. Then it had bolted, disappearing into the trees. 

John had arrived at the store feeling raw, like an exposed nerve. He had looked at Mrs. O’Connor’s kind face and vowed to never try something like that again. 

 

### 1891

John and Arthur rode into town for a drink or two. It’d been a while since the gang’s last big score. It wasn’t bad enough that they had to start worrying about money, but people back at camp were starting to grow antsy and rowdy from the lack of work. Enough that Dutch had ordered some of the men to take off. Go drinking, gambling or hunting. He didn’t care, as long as they got out of his camp and out of his sight. Idle minds and all that. 

They arrived at the town’s saloon. Arthur immediately made his way to the bar. 

John had marched directly for the poker table. Besides shooting and riding, poker was the only other thing John could say he was a natural at. He was a shit liar most of the time, but when it came to bluffing and reading an adversary’s tells, John had not found his match yet. 

In a way, it was a lot like keeping your cool and predicting your opponent's intentions in a firefight. 

John was half way through winning his fourth round when he noticed Arthur staring at him. He was sitting by himself at a table on the other side of the saloon. The bottle of hard liquor by his elbow was already reduced to a third of its content. Was that bottle full when he’d started? Had Arthur drank all of that by himself? John had been too focused on the game in front of him to notice. 

Arthur was drunk and staring at him hard. On most good days, Arthur was an easygoing guy, with the people he liked, at least. But he had a talent for making a man soil himself with just a look and a few well-chosen words when he needed to. Right now, he was looking at John kinda like that. 

John looked at the cards in his hands. Nothing exciting. He looked around the table. The feller to his right was biting his bottom lip. He had a good hand and was eager to play it. The big feller to his left hadn’t looked too happy about losing the last three hands to John. He could tell the man was one insult, real or imaginary, away from doing something stupid. Like, pulling his gun and accusing John of cheating. John wasn’t in the mood to kill a man in a crowded saloon. 

Even if the man in question probably deserved it. 

The feller sitting directly across from John had already lost his hat by the time John had arrived. He was in no mood to divest a man of his own shoes, either. 

“Well, it seems my friend over there had a little too much to drink. I should get him home before he decides to burn the whole place down,” John placed his cards on the table and got to his feet. 

The overeager to his right smiled giddily at him. “Leave while you’re still winning, is what I always say!” 

John rolled his eyes when his back was to three men. 

He looked at Arthur’s table again. The man was gone. 

“What the hell,” he muttered to himself, stepping outside. 

They had really lost track of time. It was dark already. Dutch would throw a cow. 

John was circling to the side of the saloon to see if Arthur had gone outside to take a leak, when a pair of hands jumped at him from an alley. The person pulled John back into the dark corner with them. 

John raised his fists and opened his mouth to ask _just who the fuck_ , when the hands traveled to his hips pulling him close. Wet lips tasting of cheap whiskey found his own in the darkness. John kissed back hungrily. 

Arthur pulled back just an inch. “How’d ya know it ‘as me.” 

John smirked. Arthur was really drunk. 

“I didn’t. I just like being manhandled by strangers in dark alleys.” 

Arthur lips were on his again before he could finish the sentence. 

“No,” Arthur mumbled coherently against John’s mouth. 

“No?” John laughed. 

Arthur hummed, squeezing his hips. His green eyes were glassy under the moonlight. John was going crossed-eyed trying to look at them. 

Arthur was staring down at John’s lips anyway. 

“I love watching you like that,” Arthur murmured. “All focused. Taking no shit. It’s a good look on you.” 

John opened his mouth. He could feel his lips moving, but no sound would come out. He wasn’t one to care about romantic declarations, but Arthur saying that word about anything related to him... it had John feeling some kind of way. 

He tried to laugh it off. 

“We should get going, big guy,” he patted Arthur on the cheek patronizingly. “Dutch won’t like it if we ride back into camp in the middle of the night.” 

Arthur grabbed at his hand and turned his head to kiss the inside of John’s wrist. All casual, like it was nothing. 

“Alright,” he agreed with drunken amiability and stepped away and out of the alley. Leaving John feeling too cold and too warm, all at once. 

John collected himself and followed Arthur. All in time to see the drunken fool swing himself on top of his horse, almost sliding clean through the other side. Usually, John would laugh at his own risk. Arthur was a forgiving drunk, though. 

They were both still snickering about it by the time they got to the camp. 

Dutch had only yelled a little and John went to bed thinking about Arthur’s mouth on his wrist. And the way his voice had curled, smooth and easy, around that word.

 

### 2005 

John woke up startled. His heart was racing. He looked around, searching for a threat. The room was empty, though. John’s hand itched to curl around his old revolver, but that firearm didn’t exist anymore. He had kicked the gun he’d bought six years ago somewhere under his bed and hadn’t thought about it since. He had no desire to touch that one. 

John blew out a breath, adrenaline suddenly gone, leaving him drained. He grabbed his phone, looking for the time. 6:59. John kept staring, too cold, too heavy to move. He tried to remember why he had to keep doing it. Keep getting out of bed and going with the motions, over and over every day until the end of fucking time. A minute passed. 7:00. 

His alarm went off. 

John got out of bed. 

Shower, brushing teeth, breakfast. 

Pants, shirt, shoes. 

Wallet. Cellphone. Keys. 

Front door. 

Rinse and repeat. 

Work. 

Shelves. Mop. Tags. 

Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat 

 

* * *

 

John was blankly staring at a stain on the wall, when the hair on his arms stood up for no apparent reason. A shiver went through him and, for once, it had nothing to do with the constant cold inside him. John looked around. The store was empty once again, aside from him and Mrs. O’Connor. 

John waited a minute. Nothing happened. He went back to work. 

 

 

Somewhere on the other side of the state, a man was crawling out of his own grave. A pale hand punched out of the wet earth. Followed by a head of blond hair. The man pushed his body all the way out on shaky limbs. He fell on his side, spitting and heaving. He blinked and kneeled up on the ground, blocking the morning sun with his hands as he looked around. A smile blossomed on his face. 

His body was sore, but his mind was sound. 

The man knew who he was. He had all of his memories. 

 

 

His name was Micah Bell. 

 

And he had a dept to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUUUNNN
> 
> Warning for an attempted suicide in the first portion of this chapter. For full disclosure, despite being descriptive, I don't think it's a particularly emotionally difficult scene to read. But, for those who want to avoid it for any reason: stop reading at the start of the 10th paragraph ("It had happened two months after clawing out of the grave") and continue at the 15th paragraph ("The following morning, a stag had been grazing outside John’s house").  
> The ways it will be relevant to the story are: 1) that's how John learns of his immortality - he hasn't made the connection with the Braithwaite curse yet (I mean, would you?), and thinks he's just being cosmically punished for what he perceives as his earthly crimes and unworthy nature. 2) John owns a gun. 3) John is lonely and depressed by his current situation, and scared of the prospect of being alone forever, but you could probably already tell that by now :/
> 
> questions? complaints? suggestions? i'm here to clear out all doubts when possible! and to be appropriately vague when not!


	3. rivers and roads; oh, rivers and roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "you and i both know that the house is haunted  
> and you and i both know that the ghost is me.  
> you used to catch me in your bed-sheets,  
> just a-rattling your chains. well, back then baby,  
> it didn’t seem so strange"  
> \- dearly departed

### 1899

“Listen to me, John,” Arthur demanded. He’s voice was weak. A raspy wheezing sound, when it used to rumble like thunder. “This thing with Dutch. It ain’t gonna end well. When the time comes, you need to take your woman and boy. And leave. Leave and don’t look back.” He put a hand on John’s shoulder. That was new. John couldn’t remember the last time Arthur had willingly touched him. “Promise me.” 

Dutch hadn’t been acting right. John knew that. The unpredictable behavior. Killing without good cause. Making enemies for the hell of it. For chaos. John could see it all, had been for a while. Arthur wasn’t wrong. But still, it didn’t feel right to John. Abandoning the gang like that. When John had left all those years ago, he did it because he thought it was what was best for everyone. This was different. 

Running to save his own skin. When there were still people in the gang who needed him. The women. Arthur. He couldn't leave them to fight that fight all alone. 

“What about loyalty?” 

“Be loyal to your family, John. Be loyal to what matters.” 

It shouldn’t surprise John. The irony of Arthur selflessness. Fighting all the battles alone. Covering for John, so he could go be with this family, go be the man he’s supposed to be. When all John wanted was to go to Arthur. Run into the burning wreckage of their lives. Guns blazing, side by side. To curl around him, protect him from the unavoidable truth. To die with him if he had to. 

But Arthur didn’t want that. Hadn’t wanted that in a long time. Maybe he never had. 

“What about you?” John couldn’t help but ask. 

The hand on his shoulder dropped. 

“Me? Well, I won’t be here for long,” he smiled. It was that self-deprecating grin he wore too often now. “I-John," Arthur started, faltering and too serious all of the sudden. John felt stupidly rattled by the intensity of those eyes. Somehow, he had forgotten what that attention felt like. "Hell, it doesn't really matter no more. I’m about to start my long overdue vacation. You worry about yourself and your family, John.” 

_What about you_ , John wanted to repeat. To insist, until it all made sense to him. _Even before, we used to be family. When did that change? When did I lose that last bit of you, too?_

John looked at Arthur. His pale skin, bruises around bloodshot eyes. The silent pleas of a tired man, being pulled in too many directions. By loyalty, by duty. 

It was pointless to argue. 

There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Arthur. 

Even if it broke his heart a little further. Sank the knife a little deeper. John was used to it. 

John breathed out, the last drop of fight leaving his body. After carrying it in his chest for so long, so stubbornly, it should feel like relief. It didn't.

As it was, he just felt hollow.

“When the time comes, I’ll leave. I promise.” 

 

### 2005 

John was working alone. Mrs. O’Connor was visiting her daughter. Her granddaughter was sick. Or maybe it was her niece. John hadn’t been paying attention to the details. 

His nightmares were getting worse. John didn’t usually remember his dreams; images gone, turned into smoke when he opened his eyes. But these were persistent. He could only recall flashes, but they crowded his mind. Taking over his thoughts, making his head ache at all hours. 

There was always a horse. A huge black stallion with burnt skin, covered in blisters, and fire in his eyes and mane. Galloping towards John, terrifyingly fast and heavy. Shaking the earth and spreading fire on its wake, biting at the air and neighing furiously. Coming for John, inexorably. But, it wasn’t just a horse. John could feel his hate. See the thirst for vengeance in his terrible fiery eyes. 

He felt horribly hot in those dreams. Skin searing and burning. Fire curling at his limbs and inside his throat, so he couldn’t scream or run. 

But when he woke up, he was always freezing again. 

The store’s phone ringed jarringly, pulling John away from his thoughts. He had never used that phone. It was Mrs. O’Connor’s responsibility. But she wasn’t here now. John picked it up. 

“’llo,” John voice was terribly scratchy from disuse. He cleared his throat. 

“Hello? Mrs. O’Connor?,” a woman asked on the other side of the line. 

“Mrs. O’Connor had a, uh, family emergency. She ain’t here right now. I’m John. I’m her employee.” He couldn’t remember the last time he had said so many words. Probably before the grave. 

“Oh, well. I don’t mean to bother, but there was a fire in the forest last night. A small thing, probably just a tree struck by lightning. It’s out now, but I know there’s a cabin somewhere in that direction. I’ve seen the man who lives there once or twice. He bought the cabin from my husband actually. He’s a quiet man. Lives by himself, I reckon. I haven’t seen him since my husband handed him the property, but I see smoke coming out of the chimney now and again,” the woman continued to prattle. “But anyway, I was worried. You know, on the account of the fire. So, I thought to myself, maybe Mrs. O’Connor could send someone to take a look? I’d go myself, but the cabin is farther into the woods than I’m comfortable with, to be honest. It’s the reason we sold it in the first place. We sold it real cheap, too, on the account of how isolated it is. The poor fella must’ve been hurting for money real bad.” 

She paused. John realized that was his cue. 

“I’ll go check.” He found himself saying. She gave him the directions and John wrote them down mechanically. His mind was racing, for some reason. He hung up. 

It could be nothing. Just a gossipy old lady with too much time on her hands. 

Or is could be someone hurting, alone in the woods. 

Or it could be too late. John could get there and find nothing but a charred body. 

He looked around the empty store. At the mopped floor. The clean shelves. The stain on the wall. 

He got up and walked out. 

John looked at the glossy OPEN sign on the door, thinking about that first night, all those years ago. He flipped it around and got in his car.

 

### 1892

It was mid-summer. Dutch had decided to move the camp again after a run in with the law. Arthur and John were sent a couple days ahead to scout the area and find a suitable vacant place for them to settle. Or to find a suitable place and make it vacant, as needed. 

They found a quiet spot near a river. Well hidden by the vegetation and easily defendable. It was deserted, so the both of them just needed to set up a provisional camp and wait out for two days or so for the rest of the gang to catch up with them. 

The heat was still unbearable, tough. 

It was night time already, but John was still sweating under his clothes. He rolled up his sleeves and opened a couple more buttons on his shirt. He was bracing his arm on a tree and facing the river, trying to catch some of the breeze. 

John felt a pair of strong arms snake around his chest. Arthur pushed John’s back against his own sweaty front. He buried his nose in John’s damp neck. “You,” Arthur murmured against John’s neck, wet lips and stubble making John shiver, “need a bath,” the man finished, biting lightly at John’s earlobe, making him laugh and squirm in his arms. 

John loved this. It was always better when they were alone. Around the gang, Arthur was guarded and almost indifferent to John’s presence. John understood the need to be careful, but he missed this side of Arthur. All the time. 

John pushed back against him, moaning a little impatiently. Some part of John wished he could be a little more stoic. Let Arthur work for it, make him chase John a little. But the truth was that they had so little time alone, they had to make the most of it. Besides, when it was like this, just the two of them, Arthur was just as eager. 

John usually tried not to let that go to his head. 

In that moment, though, he could hear Arthur struggling with his own belt buckle. The sound itself made John smile. Arthur’s breathing became a little shallow when John turned around to help him with it. Arthur was hard already and John couldn't help but smirk when his hands brushed against the other man’s crotch, causing him to moan a little. It’d been a while since they last got to do this. And John was pretty sure Arthur wasn’t doing it with anyone else, either. 

John got his hands inside Arthur’s pants, squeezing it a little. 

Arthur was still holding his own pants up, trying to dig something out of his pockets with clumsy hands. He finally yanked a tin of slick out of it, letting his pants drop to the floor. It was some oil made from vegetables. Supposedly meant for cooking, but Arthur kept it in a hair pomade flask, in case anyone asked why he always carried it around, even though neither of them liked putting stuff on their hair. 

They liked this though. A lot.

Arthur began to spread the slick along his own length, making it easier for John to stroke him to full hardness. 

Arthur quickly rid John of his pants as well, and pushed their slick cocks together. It felt so good. John was losing himself in the sensation and the wonderful noises he was pulling out of Arthur. But he wanted more. John pushed Arthur’s hands away, earning a confused glassy-eyed look from the other man. He quickly turned around, leaning against the tree again and wordlessly pushing his ass against Arthur. 

This part was still new for both of them. No matter how much he wanted it, John still felt awkward asking for it. And Arthur almost never asked for the things he needed. So John had to be creative sometimes. Or, in this case, just really fucking blunt. 

John cold tell by Arthur’s sharp intake of breath behind him, that the man got his message and was onboard with it, though. 

Arthur's hand trailed up John's inner thigh, until his slick fingers were pressing between John's cheeks, against his hole. Arthur leaned against John’s back, slipping a finger inside him. They both moaned. 

John was panting against the tree. Arthur licked the side of his neck. 

“You taste so good,” he groaned, sounding annoyed, of all things. 

John huffed. “I thought you said I needed a bath.” 

“You do. Later, though. You’ll need it all the more when I'm done with you.” He added another finger. 

John was fucking back on Arthur’s hand. 

“Arthur. Come on. Another,” he gasped. 

Arthur hummed and kneaded John’s hip with his other hand. He added a third finger, spreading them carefully as he fucked John with them. In and out, in and out. Brushing against that spot just right. John was about to lose his goddamn mind. 

“Come on, come on,” he whispered a little frantically, bowing his back and pushing harder against the other man. 

Arthur cursed under his breath and pulled his fingers out, slowly grazing that spot. Just to make John whimper. 

He chuckled a little and John didn’t even have time to form a comeback, before the head of Arthur’s cock was brushing against his entrance. Christ, it had been too long. He whimpered, even needier this time. 

Arthur’s free hand came up to rest on John’s jaw, guiding John’s face so he could nuzzle at his temple, kiss his scarred cheek. 

“Alright?” Arthur asked, voice croaky all of the sudden. 

John opened his eyes. He didn’t remember closing them. 

“Yeah,” he nodded a little too enthusiastically, feeling Arthur’s stubble against his skin again. 

Arthur pushed forward, thrusting into him. He felt so big and hard inside him. John always thought Arthur was the perfect size. Arthur weight was pushing John flat against the tree. It felt amazing. John loved feeling Arthur like this, touching him everywhere, breathing in his ear. 

But then Arthur moved away and it got even better. He pulled at John’s hips, but kept his upper body pressed against the tree, making John bow his back in a needy arch. The new angle had Arthur’s cock nailing that spot inside him over and over. Fucking into him even deeper. 

John peered over his shoulder, wanting to see Arthur. His dirty blond hair was a mess. His shirt was open all the way, giving John a full view of his sweat slicked chest. Arthur was biting at his own lip as he thrust deeper and deeper. He was all half-lidded eyes and low moans, looking at the place where his cock disappeared inside John. John let out a needy sound. 

Arthur’s eyes meet his. A lazy smile spread across his face, slowly. He reached out and grabbed John’s hair. Pulling a little, just the way he knew would drive John crazy. Arthur fucked into him faster. The obscene wet sounds making John’s untouched cock leak even more. 

“Touch yourself,” Arthur demanded. His voice so low and wrecked it sent a shiver down John’s spine. 

John rushed to comply, pumping his cock fast. As fast and hard as Arthur was fucking him. 

He was gasping and whining, now. Little high pitched _ah ah ahs_ that would make John feel self-conscious in any other situation. He was so close, tough. And he knew by now how much Arthur loved hearing him, so he made no effort to muffle the sounds. 

“Yeah, just like that,” Arthur murmured in his ear. “Just like that, sweetheart.” 

John came so hard all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ear and the distant sound of Arthur whispering encouragements to him, although John couldn't have made out any of the words if he tried. All he could think about was Arthur saying _that_. Calling John that, while pressing into him like he wanted to be impossibly closer, like he couldn’t get enough. In that reverent tone of voice, like maybe he really meant it. 

John knew he would berate himself for those thoughts later. But not right now. Now, all he could focus on was Arthur’s bruising grip on his hips as came inside John. Arthur leaned his forehead against the nape of his neck. His hands sneaked up under John’s shirt, touching his stomach and chest. There was nothing particularly sexual about it. Arthur just liked running his hands across John’s skin after he came, sometimes. It still sent a thrill through John every time, though. 

John groaned, liking the attention, but mostly feeling a little gross. They were both still wearing their shirts (uncomfortable, in this weather. But they never knew when they’d have to scramble for their clothes. Even in deserted places like this, old habits die hard), and both were soaked in sweat. 

Arthur pulled out. John winced a little feeling the mess between his legs. He was about to slump against the tree when those big hands grabbed at him again, turning him around. Arthur pulled him in, bringing their foreheads together. 

“If I go with you into that river, do you promise not to drown like a fool.” 

“It’s barely three feet deep," John was torn between grinning and frowning, "I think I’ll manage.” 

Arthur huffed. He moved away, pulling John with him. 

John didn’t drown. But he did trip on his own two feet, causing Arthur to laugh so hard he almost fell into the river himself.

 

### 2005 

John drove his old honda through the dirt road, until there was no road left. He got out and started walking in the direction the woman had told him. Mindful of the trail. He walked for what felt like hours. But, these days, he rarely got tired. Not in that sense, anyway. 

The sun was slipping behind the trees when John finally saw the cabin. It was an old decrepit thing. It looked abandoned, more beaten down than John’s own house. 

John walked closer. 

A shot rang in the forest. 

John stopped in his tracks, old instincts taking over. He wasn’t being shot at. Not yet. It was a warning. One that had come from the cabin. John could see the barrel of a rifle peeking from the open door. It was too dark inside to see the person on the other side of it. 

John raised his hands slowly. 

“I’m John. The woman who sold you this land sent me here. To check on you.” he took one step forward. Then, two. “She was worried. She said there was a fire?” John kept inching forward. He was about ten feet from the cabin now. 

“That’s been dealt with. And you can stop right there. I don’t remember telling you to move.” 

John froze for an entirely different reason. 

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Begged his heart to stop raging in his chest. 

_What a convenient moment to start hearing ghosts in other people’s voices_ , John thought to himself. 

He opened his eyes and willed his voice into something friendly. Getting shot wouldn’t kill him, but it sure would hurt. Besides, he was starting to think he had enough scars on his body already. 

“I don’t mean you no harm, Mister,” John continued. “Really, I just came to make sure everything was alright, so-” 

“Arthur,” the man interrupted him brusquely. 

“What,” John asked, blindsided. He felt like the ground was moving, cracking open under his feet, fast and uncaring to the fact that he had nothing to hold on to. 

“That’s my name, not ‘Mister’. And I’ve already told you, I dealt with the fire. So, you can turn back-” 

The man was talking, but John wasn’t registering it anymore. His legs were moving on their own accord. One step after the other. Up the front porch. The muzzle getting closer and closer, but John couldn’t stop. He had to check. Had to pull that shadow out from the darkness, had to see what was hiding underneath, had to, _had to_ \- 

The muzzle touched his chest. The man took a step forward, digging the rifle deeper, shoving John backwards with it. Stepping into the moonlight. 

His face was furious. His hair and beard were longer than John had ever seen. He looked a little skinnier, too. But that look. The one that could make grown men tuck tail and run. John would recognize it anywhere. 

“Arthur,” John gasped, incredulous, furious and euphoric, all at once. “How? How are you alive? I, I don’t-” 

He watched Arthur’s face change. From angry, to confused, to scared. John’s mouth opened to reassure him, to scream at him, anything. 

Then the butt of the rifle connected with his skull and everything went dark.

 

* * *

 

A few miles away, Micah Bell opened his eyes. He had been dreaming with the voice again. The wordless humming that told him so much. It came to him often, when he slept. Although, sometimes, he could feel its presence while awake, too. That night, it showed him a new vision. The golden stag and the scarred wolf again. But together, this time. Micah knew that was important. The voice was telling him so. It’s time, it hummed, distinct and absolute, with no words at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can y'all smell the stench of micah's undead revenge like a pile of garbage rotting in the sun bc ur dad didn't close the trashcan firmly enough? because i can D:
> 
> *chanting* sins of the father sins of the father
> 
> the song in this chapter's summary was introduced to me by @jeanjosten in their arthur/john fic "the man who had everything". the fic is a short, tender and beautiful punch in the gut, so go check that out!!! and the song really is the perfect arthur/john tune, ugh!!!
> 
> all the chapter titles and summaries in this fic are from song lyrics that i love and associate with either john or arthur or both of them together. i've already compiled a silly ol' playlist that i plan to share soon :)
> 
> questions? vengeful hexes? you know what to do


	4. you'll hear me howling outside your door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i walked all day along the shore  
> i was made for loving you.  
> you don't remember anymore  
> the kisses that i stole from you."  
> \- the shore

### 1899

John was dropping in and out of consciousness. Wavering on top of Arthur’s horse, clinging to the man in front of him as best as he could. Fighting to stay upright, trying not to fall to the snow-covered ground. Where the cold was so harsh, it burned. Where the wolves would find John again and finish what they’d started. 

He held on tighter. His swollen and mangled face smarting against the thick material of Arthur’s coat. John was probably making a bloody mess out of Arthur’s saddle and clothes.  


“We are almost there, John. Just hang on,” he thought he heard Arthur yell over the howling wind. The other man had his eyes on the path ahead. He kept a punishing pace, pushing the horse to its limits. Javier had ridden ahead without the extra weight, to warn the others of their return.  


But then the wind carried a different type of howling entirely.  


The wolves were back. A whole pack was circling around them. Sharp teeth biting at the air. Trotting furiously, impossibly close.  


Arthur’s horse was neighing wildly, terrified.  


_They’ll catch me again_ , John thought, numb, _seems I’m never making out of this mountain, after all._ The thought came as a twisted comfort. John had been halfway through accepting his fate, when Arthur had come out of nowhere. A saving hand, materializing out of the unforgiving white wind to deliver John from harm. A miracle, even though John hadn’t been praying for one.  


It was different now, though. If the wolves reached their horse, John wouldn’t be the only one dying today.  


John reached down with his right hand, patting at Arthur’s hip. Found a sawed shotgun. Jackpot.  


He turned around. His right eye was useless now. Shut tight by blood and swollen skin. From this close though, he only needed the one. He aimed and fired. Once, twice. Two wolves lied still on the snow. The rest scattered, instinct driving them away from the thundering sound. To live and fight another day. Suddenly, they looked a lot smaller and less vicious to him. 

John let his arm drop. Adrenaline left his body dizzyingly fast. He felt himself collapse against Arthur’s back again. Drained and cold. 

 

* * *

 

The next thing John remembered was waking up in an unfamiliar a bed, dreams of biting cold and gnarling jaws fading away. He felt cold and hot, all at once. Shivering and sweating, while his whole body ached. The bullet wound on his leg smarted something fierce. But it was nothing compared to the searing pain on his face. The whole right side felt like a single ball of fire. It itched, too. John’s hand came up, automatically, to scratch at it. Desperate to find any kind of relief.  


He was weak and uncoordinated, though. Someone easily knocked his hand away mid movement. Whoever it was, they were sitting on the right side of the bed and John couldn’t see them with all the bandages around his face. Not without moving his head. Something he quickly realized he couldn’t do. Not without sending a jolt of pain through his skull.  


John groaned frustratedly. It came out weaker and more pitiful then he would’ve liked. 

“Hush,” the man tutted, keeping John’s hand down on the bed. John was already drifting back into unconsciousness, but the voice sounded a lot like Arthur’s. Either that, or wishful thinking made it so. It wouldn’t be the first time John tricked himself into seeing and hearing Arthur in other men.  


John sighed deeply, falling back into the darkness that crowded his vision. He closed his one good eye, holding on to thoughts of Arthur. Willing himself into conjuring kinder dreams this time.

 

### 1999

The mirror was about John’s height, with a simple wooden frame. Old paint flaking in chunks and sticking to John’s sweaty palms. He was standing in front of it now, hands at the hem of his shirt. He had bought the mirror exactly for this purpose.  


He peeled the shirt off and took it all in. All the scars, old and new. The thin white line just above his collarbone, from when he got in a knife fight once. The faint burn from his father’s cigar on the inside of his elbow. The wolf claw marks on his face. Other smaller, less memorable scars. All familiar to him.  


Except for the other ones. The ones John got on the day he died. Several round patches of harsh skin, where the bullets went through his body. In through his chest and out his back. One on his left cheek, usually hidden behind stubble. Its correspondent twin mark somewhere behind John’s left ear. Another went clean through his neck. Thirteen others spread through his torso, legs and arms. John counted them all.  


He expected to feel shock. For the strangeness of it all to hit him like the recoil of an unfamiliar gun. Instead, he felt numb. Detached. Like it’d all happened to some other poor bastard, whose body John happened to be wearing right now. And maybe he was right.  


In the following years, John watched his unchanging reflection on that mirror, as it looked back at him with cold indifference.

 

### 2005

Consciousness returned with a splitting headache to boot. John set up on the bed, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead, trying not to groan out lout. John squinted against a sudden artificial light.  


Someone cleared their throat. The recent events came crashing like a storm against John’s thoughts. He looked up. Expecting to find an empty room. For it all to have been a dream, a cruel hallucination. 

But there he was. Arthur. Sitting on a chair across the one-room cabin. Rifle resting across his thighs. John’s breath caught painfully in his chest.  


“You know me. How?” Arthur asked in a flat tone.  


“You don’t remember?” He blurted out. “Before...? Anything?” John immediately recalled his first night out of the grave. How he hadn’t known his own name. If Arthur had not recovered his memories in all these years, could it mean it was permanent for him? The thought made John feel desperatly lonely.  


Arthur grunted noncommittally.  


“We... We were friends, once,” John struggled to best explain their past. What they were to each other. The things they’d been through. Trying to quantify an entire lifetime of fighting, together and each other. All of John’s best and worst memories. The ones he’d always guarded so jealously in his stupidly stubborn heart. Trying to fit all that love and hurt into words that would make sense to a man who wouldn’t remember them at all. He cleared his throat.  


“But,” John continued, “that was a long time ago. We used to run with a gang, more like family really. Until it wasn’t no more and we, we had to leave. I had to leave,” _You made me leave_ , “You stayed behind so I could escape,” _You made me leave. And I let you. And there’s not a day I don’t hate myself for it._ The thoughts tried to claw their way back into the light. John pushed them back down under the earth.  


“You died,” he continued, staring Arthur in the eye. The man looked as impassive as ever, “but if your first night on this side of the road was anything like mine, I probably didn’t have to tell you that.” Arthur looked away, confirming John’s words. He still knew how to read a man’s tells better than any book.  


“Yeah, thought so.” Now that his head wasn’t ringing as much, both from the blow of the rifle and from seeing Arthur standing right in front of him, like he’d never left at all, John could see things clearer. The too-rigid line of his shoulders, the hand fidgeting minutely against the handle of the rifle, the muscles on his jaw shifting in a pattern, from trying not to grind his teeth and failing. That was Arthur lying. Or at least trying to hide some part of a truth, either from himself or from others.  


John forced himself to relax. To bring his own cards closer and put his old poker act on. It felt as familiar as it was foreign, like walking on his own two feet after being on horseback for too long.  


“So, you know that part already and you know your own name at least. What else do you remember?”  


Arthur looked a little taken aback by the complete shift in the interrogation, but he quickly recovered. He stared at John long and hard, as if deciding how much he was willing to share in exchange for what he wanted to know.  


_Apparently, not much_ , John thought in the long silence that followed.  


“How did you come by this place?” John asked, deciding to switch gears for the moment. “The woman I spoke with mentioned they sold it to you dirt cheap.”  


Arthur chuckled a little darkly. It startled John a little. He was surprised to realize that, despite all his reveries surrounding Arthur, he had forgotten that peculiar sound.  


“Sure, I reckon you could say that,” Arthur answered, “but the truth is, her husband didn’t ask for no money at all.”  


John frowned.  


“They gave it to you, for free?” Sure, the cabin was old, but no one ever gave land away for free like that. Not ever.  


“I didn’t say that,” Arthur kept one of his hands on the rifle, while the other went to scratch at his long beard, absentminded, “The thing is, I didn’t have any money when I first came to these parts, but the owner was willing to hand it to me in exchange for a few, uh, favors. His wife hated this place. He told me their son got lost in these woods, some years ago. She’s loathed the area ever since. He clearly was desperate to get rid of this place. Even more than I was to buy it.”  


John took a second to feel bad for the lady on the phone. Then his mind went back to what Arthur had just said.  


“In exchange for favors? What kind of favors?” John thought of Mrs. O’Connor and how she’d helped him in the beginning. How she still let him live in that house for a ridiculously low rent.  


“Uh, you know,” Arthur’s hand went back to rest on his rifle, “there’s always a crook or two who need some roughing up, for stealing cattle or some other reason. I don’t think his wife knew about that arrangement, though. The man was as reserved as she was nosy.”  


“Jesus,” John laughed despite himself. It seemed the more the world changed, the more it stayed the same.  


Arthur looked at him sharply, perhaps suspicious of John’s sudden display of friendliness.  


“So,” John continued, not bothering to try to cover for it, “you said you had just come to these parts when you met that feller. Where were you before that?” John had a guess. Charles had told him where he’d buried Arthur, but John had never had the strength to go see it. To go _pay his respects_ to the man, back on the very place where he’d left him to die. The thought itself had felt cowardly and dishonest enough to John to keep him away on his lowest nights.  


John’s eyes snapped back to Arthur, irrationally worried the man could tell his thoughts just by reading his face. But Arthur wasn’t looking at John at all. He seemed to be pondering John’s question, with a distant sort of look in his eyes.  


“On the first couple weeks,” he started, sounding lost in thoughts, “right after the- the grave, I didn’t know much of anything besides my own name, but” Arthur frowned to no one in particular. It was like John wasn’t in the room at all. “I had this strange overwhelming urge to go south. I didn’t know what it was, but it kept me awake all night. It was all I could think about. For a moment, I was afraid it’d drive me crazy, so I walked to the train station and sneaked into the first train going south outta Illinois. I kept jumping from train to train, until I got to a place where the urge finally stopped. I asked around and they told me it was Texas. I slept rough for a while until someone directed me to the couple who sold me this cabin.”  


Arthur was looking at him again, now. John felt a chill run down his spine. Something about what the other man had said felt alarming and important, like John should know what it meant. Like the answer should be just around the corner, if only he could take that last step.  


Suddenly, he wanted to tell Arthur everything. The horrible nightmares, the unchanging reflection staring back at him in his shitty old mirror, the constant cold that only went away when John dreamt he was burning. He wanted to let it spill all over and hear Arthur say _that’s alright, Johnny, I can help you with that , don’t you worry_ , like he would when John was just a boy, too stupid and full of it to admit he didn’t know his ass from his elbow.  


Except they weren’t kids no more. And Arthur… well, he wouldn’t even remember those times, now.  


“I know you don’t remember me,” John broke the silence. Arthur looked away, staring somewhere outside the window, “but I’m no threat to you, I can assure you of that.”  


Arthur exhaled amusedly. “And why should I believe you?”  


He still wasn’t looking at John. In a way, that made it easier to tell the truth.  


“Because I’d rather saw my own arm off than hurt you, but if that’s not enough for you,” John let out his own sarcastic laugh, “in our current _condition_ I couldn’t kill you even if I wanted to.”  


Arthur’s eyes met his, narrow and untrusting.  


“We can’t die,” John clarified, “as far as I can tell, we don’t age and we don’t die.”  


“How can you be so sure-”  


“I just am, alright?” John snapped, patience breaking a little under Arthur’s unwavering distrust. “I have a goddamned bullet on my living room wall that confirms it, if you need proof,” it was strange to feel anger after being numb for so long, “otherwise, you’re just gonna have to take my word for it.”  


When John had woken up in this cabin and found Arthur sitting across the room, some part of him had felt hope. The same pitifully resilient part that had carried that hope in his chest all those years ago, through long nights under the stars, through every bloody shootout, every brush with death, every glass of whiskey, every accidental brush of fingers. Just hanging on for the moment Arthur would turn back and _see_ John again, would look at him like he used to. But that moment never came then. And it wouldn’t come now.  


As quickly as it came, the anger rushed out of John’s body, leaving him hollow.  


“I should get going,” he got up from the bed, “unless you want to shoot me to prove my own point,” he mumbled, eyeing Arthur’s rifle uncertainly. John wanted to stay. Wanted to keep talking to Arthur until dawn, like they would do sometimes during sleepless nights. Wanted to say ‘Do you remember…?’ and launch into stories of their past, all the funny, stupid and reckless things they’d done together. But, in the face of Arthur’s indifference, John found the weight of those memories was too much to carry alone. 

He turned to leave. Maybe he could come back later. In a couple days, to help Arthur. The cabin looked like it needed some work, John could help him with that. Could eventually help Arthur remember more of his own past, if that’s what he wanted. He could bring a bottle of whiskey next time. Maybe they could be friends again, some day. Like they used to be, before they lost it all.  


“It’s too late,” Arthur said, as John reached the door.  


“What,” John faltered, cold all over. Irrationally afraid he had been voicing his own thoughts, somehow.  


“It’s too late for you to leave now,” he continued, “It’s too dark out. You will break your neck out there.”  


_I’m afraid it still wouldn’t kill me_ , John thought a bit crazily.  


“There’s a bedroll,” Arthur continued, “take it. You can leave in the morning after we’re done talking.” He got up and picked the sleeping bag, throwing it at John. “I have questions that need answering, and you seem to have the answers to at least some of them,” he grunted, like the admission in itself was of great grievance to him.  


John stood there dumbfounded while Arthur went on taking off his own boots and clothes, turning the lights off and lying under the covers in his underwear.  


“Go to bed, Marston,” Arthur said in the dark, “I’m not done with you, yet.”  


John moved to comply, feeling more than a little out of sorts, but too tired and secretly grateful for Arthur’s proximity to argue. John closed his eyes in the quiet darkness. Exhaustion took over and it never occurred to him that he had not told Arthur his full name that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur: im a HERMIT, a LONER, a creature of the NIGHT  
> also arthur: alexa play lets get it on *starts stripping in front of john*


	5. 'neath the western sky on the lone prairie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “what if the breath that kindled those grim fires,  
> awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage,  
> and plunge us in the flames; or from above  
> should intermitted vengeance arm again  
> His red right hand to plague us?"  
> \- paradise lost

### 1911

Agent Ross had double crossed him. Like John knew he would, eventually. No matter how many remnants of the old van der Linde gang John hunted down, there was always gonna be one monster left to haunt Ross’s perfect record. John himself. And Ross was too damned proud to ever let that slide. John just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

Uncle’s body was still lying on the front porch when John rushed Abigail and Jack into the barn, onto their fastest horse. Another poor fool thinking he could escape his past and getting shot down for his troubles. The world seemed to be full of them these days. Abigail would just have to come back and give the old drunk a proper burial, later.

Later. After Ross and his men had gotten what they came for and left. 

“Get out of here. I’ll deal with this and catch up with you two when I’m done,” John lied. 

“John...” Abigail wasn’t stupid. John was a crack shot, but she knew the score. 

“Go. And don’t look back,” the familiar words echoed in his brain. “Please, do it for Jack if not for yourself.” 

Abigail nodded, with sorrow in her eyes, but hardened by determination. She was a strong woman and she'd do anything for her boy. 

John nodded once, too, and hit the horse on its rear. He watched as they galloped away. 

He turned around and faced the barn door. He walked closer and looked outside, through the gaps in the wood. Ten, fifteen, twenty men, John counted. He took a deep breath, suddenly calm. Knowing he was doing the right thing. Being the man he was supposed to be. Arthur would’ve been satisfied, if not proud. 

John kicked the heavy door open, guns up and shooting. He took as many of them as he could, as their bullets rippled through his flesh and bones. John burned all over. Before he knew, he was on his knees. Blood pooling under him and in his throat, choking him. 

Ross and what was left of his men walked away, without looking at him twice. Dust raised when he hit the ground, making his eyes burn. Or maybe it wasn’t the dust at all.

As he stared at receding sun, John wondered, not for the first time, if Arthur had felt scared, dying alone in that mountain.

 

### 2005

Arthur was outside shaving his beard off with a straight razor when John woke up the next day. 

John got up from the floor with a pitiful groan. He never thought he’d consider his decrepit bed particularly comfortable, but in comparison to the cabin’s floor, it was downright cozy. Sleeping on hard ground was something John would never miss from his old life.

He could see the other man through the open cabin door. Sitting outside with a bucket by his feet and a razor in his hand. He was shirtless and his head was thrown back, so he could get to his neck with the razor. He showed no sign of being aware that John was awake.

John took the opportunity to look a little. All in all, Arthur looked good. He had lost a little weight, but he clearly had been working outside a lot. He had none of the pale completion John saw in himself these days. The sun had tanned his skin and brought out his freckles, making him look lively. Healthy. Nothing like John remembered from their last days together. 

The morning sun was reflecting on Arthur’s hair, turning the dirty blond lighter. Golden, even. Even the hairs on his arms and chest seemed to gleam under the trick of the light. He looked beautiful and at peace. Arthur had always seemed to be at his happiest when surrounded by nature and sunlight. John looked away reflexively, with no desire to be caught staring.

He looked around the cabin, instead.

It was small, just one room and sparsely furnished: a bed, an old bookshelf, a table with only one chair where Arthur probably ate and a small kitchen tucked in a corner. It clearly had electricity, though, judging by the old school fridge and the lamp Arthur had turned on last night. 

John inched closer to the bookshelf, curious to see what kind of books Arthur could be reading in this new century. Most of them were technical books, though. Manuals on things like basic gardening, carpentry, first aid. An illustrated guide to medicinal plants and herbs. And a cookbook, of all things. 

But there were some fictional titles, too. They were all familiar to John, most had been favorites of his back when he was younger. It all seemed like a million years ago, now. He touched the book spines with his fingers, reading their titles: _Treasure Island, The Three Musketeers, Walden, Moby Dick_ and a copy of _Rip Van Winkle_ , John noticed with a snort. 

He was about to pull out that one, when another book caught his eye. It was softbound, nothing written on its spine. John pulled it out. The cover was all black, no title printed there either. 

John frowned and opened the mysterious black book. 

Inside there were penciled illustrations of herbs and flowers. It seemed to be a botanic guide of sorts. John flipped the page. 

And immediately froze. 

The page was filled with Arthur’s handwriting. It had been so long since he’d last gotten to look at Arthur’s journal – like everything else, lost to the passing of time, after John died - that he hadn’t recognized the drawings right away. But he’d recognize that elegant cursive anywhere, anytime. 

He was holding Arthur Morgan’s journal for the first time in over ninety years. 

John snapped the notebook close and put it back to its place with shaky hands. His heart was beating wildly, too loud in the small room. 

He took a step back, away from the bookshelf. Those pages weren’t his to read, not anymore. Arthur may have wanted John to have that once, but that was a long time ago. Reading this journal would be an invasion of his privacy, John told himself. 

He sat down heavily on the bed and waited for Arthur. Whatever he wanted to know, he was determined to get from the man himself. 

 

 

In the same city, in a cheap poorly lit diner, Micah Bell ordered a coffee. Black, two sugars. A machine in the corner was playing music. Micah smiled, humming along. His right hand curling around a blunt knife, carving words on the wood table. The phrase so familiar to him, he could do it without looking. As he hummed distractedly, the hand around the knife moved almost by its own volition. 

The waitress placed his coffee on the table. He thanked her with a vacant expression, eyes fixed, not registering her at all. She left quickly. 

“You were always on my mind...” Micah continued to sing along with a mossy smile. His right hand still moving against the table.

He scratched at his face with cracking nails, distractedly and uncaring to the yellowed layers of dried skin that fell to his lap. He brought the cup to his lips. The strong, warm liquid on his tongue matched the thrumming in his veins.

He finished his coffee and left, silent and unnoticed. 

Carved on the table was the only evidence that Micah Bell had been there at all. 

_VENGEANCE IS HEREBY MINE_ , read the searing words from another life, never forgotten. 

 

 

When Arthur got back inside the cabin, John had been flipping through the pages of one of his books. 

“He dies in the end,” Arthur grunted, annoyed, pulling the book away and slipping it back onto the shelf, “and stop messing with my things." 

John snorted. 

“He doesn’t,” John had read that particular book multiple times. Had made Arthur read it to him once, even, back when he was still learning the letters. Arthur had tried to make up different endings back then too, whenever he was frustrated at John, which happened quite a lot. Bittersweet amusement bloomed in John’s chest at that unexpected familiarity. 

Arthur set down on the same chair from the previous night, looking intently at him. 

John set up a little straighter on the bed, trying not to let the jolt of seeing Arthur’s bare face looking back at him from that close hurt him too much. 

“I reckon you have questions.” 

Arthur hummed in agreement. His eyes were roaming John’s face, following his scars, it seemed. John was used to that. Those marks had drawn questions and curious eyes in both centuries. It was so common, John had developed the habit of tailoring the most elaborate and ludicrous lies he could think of, whenever someone asked about them, just to avoid boredom. 

It was quite sobering to realize he was the only person alive who knew the real story behind his scars now. 

“Wolf attack,” he answered truthfully, “Got stranded in the mountains after a job went south. I was bleeding out from a bullet in my leg, couldn’t run anymore. The wolves found me. One of them scratched me real bad, but I ran when they turned on my horse. I hid on a step on the side of the mountain to wait it out. To be honest,” he smiled a little self-deprecating, “by that point I was just hoping I’d bleed out before the wolves got to me again,” he’d been dizzy from the blood loss, but he remembered tripping through the snow, frantic, picturing the wolves closing in behind him and thinking over and over _, not yet, not yet, not while I’m still alive_. Even now, he could still hear them, howls echoing through the mountain. Could practically smell them. 

“In the end, it didn’t come to that, though,” John continued, wondering how much he should tell Arthur. If the other man even cared about any of this, “Someone found me. A friend. He took me home and I healed up okay.” The recovery had been hell on earth, but John had made it to the other side without any permanent injuries. Sheer luck, considering everything. 

“Must’ve been quite a friend.” 

“He was,” John answered, trying not to go crazy at the absurdity of their situation, “the best. A bit of an asshole, too, but loyal. To a fault, sometimes.” 

“What happened to him?” He sounded somber, like the answer actually mattered to him. 

“He got sick. While doing something he didn’t want to do but felt like he had to. He would always do that. Put the needs of others first. Always did what was expected of him, never stopping to think about what he actually wanted,” the words were tumbling out by their own accord. Everything that frustrated him about Arthur, things John had never said out loud. “Sometimes, it felt like all he cared about was being the perfect son, dutiful and selfless. Like he had no needs of his own. And, God, he was stubborn. That man would rather starve in a hole then let someone reach down to pull him up. As if helping him was some great inconvenience he couldn’t possible impose on others.” 

“But, in the end, it was all bullshit,” John continued bitterly, “he was so _selfless_ , he didn’t give a shit what it felt like to be forced to watch that. So _honorable_ , he’d push you away, fight all your fights for you regardless of what you wanted. Would let himself be grinded to dust and not let you help, not once. He would die like a fucking martyr, like he was doing you a big favor, even though you never asked that of him at all,” his fists were curling against the mattress. John took at deep breath and forced himself to relax, balking at his own anger. 

“Yeah, he could be a real fucking bastard, too,” he finished quietly, with a shaky laugh. 

“You,” Arthur broke the silence with a hoarse voice. _How long was I talking for_ , John wondered distantly, _five minutes? A hundred and six years?_ Arthur cleared his throat. “You sound like you really cared about that friend.” 

“I did,” John answered, with no strength or desire left to deny it, “to a fault, sometimes.” 

Arthur looked away. Either too knowing or not interested. John was afraid to ask which. 

“Why am I here?” Arthur asked, closing his eyes for a moment, “Why am I still alive? What brought me back?” 

_I don’t know_ , John wanted to say, _I used to think this was punishment. My own special Hell: to live forever surrounded by strangers, for that one moment when I should have stayed and died with you_. Except now Arthur was here, too, and no Hell of John’s would ever have him. 

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I gave up on trying to figure that out a long time ago.” 

“Well, I haven’t,” he got up suddenly, marching to the bookshelf. He picked the journal John had found earlier. John’s heart skipped a beat or two while Arthur flipped through the pages. 

Arthur sat back on the chair with the open journal in his hands. 

“May your sons wander these lands forever,” he read out loud, frowning down at his own writing, “impervious to others and everlasting.” 

John felt inexplicable dread pooling in his throat again. He knew those words. 

“No bullet nor blade,” Arthur continued “shall take them from this world, and may they never know rest nor warmth.” Arthur closed the journal and looked at John. 

“I used to think it was a nightmare,” Arthur confessed, voice low, “but now… Now I’m starting to think it might be a memory,” he touched the black cover with some reverence. His eyes roamed John’s face again, “a lot of things are starting to make sense to me now.” 

John felt like he should protest, call it crazy, offer some semblance of skepticism. But the truth, as ludicrous and terrible as it sounded, had come like morphine to John’s fight. For years he’d struggled against his fate. Wondering why like _this_ , why _him_. And now he knew. 

In a way, it struck him as just another random consequence of their specific kind of violence. Like tripping on your own damned feet after running scot free from a perfect bank robbery and breaking your nose on the sidewalk. Just another case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time – doing the wrong thing, as usual. 

There was no cosmic punishment. No rhyme, nor reason to his pain. 

John couldn’t remember feeling more at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur: oh i see... about that friend of urs... was he handsome 🤔
> 
> i have two things to point out:  
> * hmm if arthur keeps his dreams-memories in that journal... i wonder what kinds of interesting things john could have found if he had snooped a little... much to think about jpeg  
> * if the line “I reckon you have questions” gave anyone da:i war flashbacks, im so srry 
> 
> oh, btw, if you never went back to Micah's body after the epilogue to loot his gun (and throw a dynamite or five), that's where the phrase VENGEANCE IS HEREBY MINE comes from. It's etched on the barrel of his revolver. Just a nice little reminder of how bonkers and delusional Micah was (i mean, "vengeance", really? you're the one going around screwing ppl over!!)
> 
> thank you to everyone who left kudos, comments and bookmarks so far! your kindness and insights are the wind beneath my wings and all that :')


	6. never be, never see, won't see what might have been.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "don't make me read your mind,  
> you should know me better than that.  
> it takes me too much time,  
> you should know me better than that.  
> we have different enemies,  
> you should know me better than that."  
> \- i should live in salt

### 1907

Eight years. Eight fucking years waiting for this moment. Hoping for it, revisiting those thoughts over and over, in his best and worst moments, like a barbed amulet. Dreaming with it – if a man could call such bloodstained images a dream. And there it was, out here, in the middle of nowhere. Knee deep in snow and frozen to the bone. A trail of dead men behind John and one soon-to-be, waiting right in front of him. Armed and ready, just like John had hoped he’d be. 

Standing in the snow and the unforgiving wind, John’s vision had never been this clear. His grip on his six-shooter, never this firm. 

John raised his gun. Leveling it with the other man’s. Micah Bell. A poisonous snake he should have put down a long time ago. 

John wasn’t worried. He was the better shot. Faster, too. And from this close, he didn’t even have to be. Besides, John didn’t much care if the other man hit his mark. For a moment, his thoughts went to Sadie, lying unconscious, but breathing, on the snow. _She’ll be okay_ , he thought, _even if I die here, Charles will get her safety._ Micah wasn’t leaving this mountain alive, and that was all that mattered now. 

All it took was eight goddamned years, but John would put an end to it all, one way or another. Right here, right now. 

John inhaled. Pulled the hammer down. 

Saw Micah smile and do the same. 

“Hello, son.” 

A bolt of adrenaline went through John. The door to a cabin he had mostly ignored as soon as he spotted Micah had just been kicked open. Dutch van der Linde stepped outside. Gun raised and aimed at John’s head. 

“Dutch?” A myriad of feelings seemed to fight within him. Red hot surprise, the kind you only get in a shootout, when a misstep can cost your life. Some feeble, deeply ingrained relief at seeing the other man alive. And then disappointment. And hurt. Both sitting impossibly heavy and cold in his chest, despite it all. Dutch, still working with Micah - riding with him, trusting him - after everything that spiteful man had done to them, to _Arthur…_ In a way, it was freeing – to curl his fist around the last bit of misguided respect he’d for his mentor and grind it to dust, watching it slip through his fingers. A small victory against Dutch on its own. 

And, lastly, came fury, burning through him and eclipsing all the rest. 

Micah’s laughter echoed in the snowy mountain. 

“Oh, how I love family reunions! Look at us! Me, the dutiful son. You, the rebellious little brother, returning home at last.” His smiled. Half mockery, half pure twisted pleasure. 

“We ain’t family. Never will be.” 

“Never say never, Johnny boy. Specially not before you hear what we have to offer.” 

“There’s nothing you could possibly-” 

“Come _on_ , John! Don’t be stupid. This world is at war and men like Dutch and me, we are on the winning side. Deep down, you know that.” 

John glanced at Dutch, who was silently watching the exchange. 

“You just gonna stand there, Dutch?!” John demanded. “Let this worm of a man guide your hand one more time? Let him finish killing everything we fought for?” John was furious. How much had Dutch’s complacency cost them? Could he even put a number to a lifetime wasted on a lie? How many good people had they lost thanks of Dutch’s inability to face the truth, to his inaction? Or to John’s? Had John seen it sooner, had he not looked the other way at the first sign of cracks on Dutch’s mask, could some of those death’s had been avoided? Could Arthur’s? “Say something! _Do_ something!” 

Dutch dropped his arm, slow and heavy. And final. 

It was all John needed. 

He looked back at Micah and aimed, all in one swift motion. 

The man was still looking at Dutch, though. Confused, smile dying slowly. 

John waited. In that moment, he could have waited another eight years - or eighty more. Time was of no consequence. At last, Micah looked at John. His frozen face tried to conjure a smile, lips moving as if hoping for the right words to come out. Words that could save his life, somehow. 

“John,” Micah began to say. 

And then he took six bullets to the chest and didn’t say much else. 

Eight years of waiting. Gone in a few seconds. 

John looked up. Took a deep breath. Let the snow touch his face, waiting for righteousness or, justice or, whatever lie he told himself, to wash away the guilt and regret that constantly weighted inside him - clogging his veins, drilling roles in his bones. But the snow just kept falling, beautifully indifferent to how rotten John felt inside. 

Dutch turned around and walked away, disappearing into the white wind without a word. 

 

 

### 2005

John had to return to work eventually. He’d already missed the entire morning shift, as it was. 

Mrs. O’Connor hadn’t even been mad. Just a little worried when John made up some lie about catching a cold. But that passed, too, when she eyed him, stating that he looked better already. 

“You look different, John. More... lively, I guess. It suits you.” 

John cleared his throat, uncomfortable. 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll take up the night shift to make up for this morning, if that’s alright.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, just leave the key behind the counter, so I can close the store.” 

John continued his afternoon shift and nodded goodbye at Mrs. O’Connor when night rolled in and she left. 

He was mopping the floor distractedly, whistling along to Mr. O’Connor’s little beat up radio. Thinking about the morning he had spent with Arthur. They had talked about their current lives, too. Or John had, mostly. He told Arthur about Mrs. O’Connor. About working at her store and how she had helped him get his life on track in the beginning. 

And Arthur had had more questions before John left. About their past and who they used to be, what they used to do. John answered as best as he could. Clearly there were a lot of gaps in Arthur’s memories, but it was becoming obvious to John he wasn’t telling the whole truth. There were moments he’d seemed to recall an event well enough, but then would backtrack and change the subject before John could press him for more. There were other signs too. In between stories, Arthur had offered him a cup of coffee. Black, no sugar, just like John had always liked. And there was the bookshelf, too. Now that John thought about it, the few fictional titles there, had all been from their past – books they had borrowed from each other throughout the years. 

Both things could be coincidences, though. Maybe Arthur had just assumed if John wanted sugar, he’d have asked for it. And even if he remembered the books, it wouldn’t necessarily mean he remembered John. He was overthinking, seeing connections and proof of something just because he wanted it to be real. 

John was lost in thoughts and noticed a little too late that the radio had gone silent. He turned around to check if the battery had died again and found Micah Bell standing before him. Micah Bell, alive. Hanging out between the soft drinks and snack food aisles. 

John felt his lips part, but any word he might have tried to get out died in his throat when he took the other man in. He looked like something straight from a horror book. His skin was pale, almost gray. His lips were so bloodless they looked blue. Long dark veins were coming up his neck, disappearing into his stubble. Others surrounded his eyes, smaller but almost as dark. The eyes were the worst, though. They looked sickening opaque and milky. Micah gave him a grotesque smile. 

John felt a shiver go down his spine in the face of such unnatural sight and didn’t notice Mrs. O’Connor’s radio in the other man’s hand until it was smashing against his head, knocking him out cold. 

“I’m sorry it had to come to this, little brother,” Micah cooed. He hoisted John on his shoulder, grunting good naturally. “But you forced my hand, Johnny boy.” 

He carried John outside. Marched to the parking lot, carelessly dropping John on the ground once he spotted the man’s own car. He had been watching John. Keeping tabs of his schedule, where he lived, what car he drove. 

“Now, where are the keys,” Micah searched John’s pockets. “Aha. Here we go.” He announced happily. 

He dragged John onto the back and circled around to the driver’s seat. 

“Don’t you worry, John. I’m taking you home first,” Micah spoke to John’s unconscious reflection on the rear-view mirror. “We have a lot of catching up to do. And there’s no reason to get blood all over that nice lady’s floor.” 

Micah grinned. 

“Oh, and I should warn you. I’m still pretty new at this whole,” he waved vaguely, “driving thing. So, I’d buckle up if I were you.” Micah cackled to himself, stepping hard on the gas pedal and skidding out of the parking lot.

 

* * *

 

Back in the cabin, Arthur was sitting at his table, journal in hand. He was reading some of his old entries. A lot of them had been dreams, some nightmares, that he’d immediately written down upon waking up over the years. He had known they were important, even then. And now he knew why. They weren’t just dreams. They were memories. The way his own convoluted brain had found to give him back pieces of his past.

_John Marston_. He traced the name with his fingers. He had dreamed of him many times in the past six years. Arthur could never fully see or touch him, but he was always there. The man was like a shadow, a word at the tip of his tongue, a sound of laughter brought over by the wind. Close enough to touch, but always gone by the time Arthur turned to look. 

Or at least he had been, until the previous night. Arthur had drawn John on his journal as best as he could, before. A curtain of black hair, a flash of sharp brown eyes, the curve of a collarbone. Sometimes he was just a dark silhouette, sitting far away, forever unreachable. Other times, he was a black wolf, scarred and snarling up at Arthur from the paper. But none of his drawings had come close to what the man looked like in the flesh, standing on Arthur’s front porch, pushing against his rifle like he wasn’t afraid of it. John had said his name with an odd sort of fury, with the moonlight reflecting on his dark eyes and Arthur had known. That man was the shadow. The voice in the wind, the wolf, the lonely silhouette. _John Marston_. 

Arthur wanted to know more. Wanted to know why this man mattered so much. He had bits and pieces of images in his head, but in that moment, it was hard to tell memory and wishful thinking apart. Arthur wanted too much for it to mean something – for John to say he had thought and dreamed about him as much as Arthur had him – to be able to trust his own judgement. He needed more information. More memories. 

He was flipping through the pages, frustrated, when an impossible sharp pain in his head brought him to the ground. He was kneeling on the floor, gritting his teeth and clutching at his head, as images flashed through his mind, bright and awful. A massive black horse with burnt skin and fire coming out of his head, his eyes, his hooves. 

And then there was a wolf. A wild, beautiful and scarred thing. Snapping his jaws at the whole world around him. Arthur was forced to watch, as the huge stallion kicked and stomped at the lone wolf mercilessly. Fiery hooves breaking bones, as frenzied howling and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. 

As fast as they came, the visions were gone. Arthur was left heaving in the empty cabin. 

Something was terribly wrong. 

John.

He needed help.

Arthur got on his feet and ran.

 

* * *

 

Someone was singing, pulling unpleasantly at John’s consciousness. 

“ _All those lonely, lonely times,_ ” the voice sounded distant, like John was drowning deep under water, “ _and I guess I never told you I'm so happy that you're mine._ ”  
John opened his eyes. 

He was home. 

Tied to a chair in the middle of his own kitchen. 

He looked around the room and saw him. Micah. He had his back to John, searching through cupboards and drawers. 

“ _If I make you feel second best, girl, I'm so sorry I was blind._ ” 

John bit down on the rag covering his mouth and tugged at the ropes on his arms and legs, testing them. He could feel blood sticking to his hair at the side of his face. Drying around the cut that should have healed already. The ropes were too tight for John to weasel out of them. Not without making too much noise. 

Micah turned back, smiling at John with that horrible face. He had a bundle in his hands. 

“Oh, Scarface is awake! That’s good,” he pulled up a chair, sitting directly in front of John. He placed the bundle on the table to the side, spreading its contents. A collection of knives, ice picks, bottle openers and every other blade and sharp object John had in the house. John closed his eyes for a moment. _Why does it always end in violence?_ John made it to a new century, a new millennium, but he still couldn’t outrun his bloody past. Every time he thought he’d ran fast enough, it caught up to him at the next corner. 

“You know, when I came out of that shitty coffin, in that shitty unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere, I was angry. So angry. But then, I looked up at the sun, shining over me and I realized. I wasn’t being punished,” he picked up a knife, testing the edge against his own gloved thumb. “You see, this right here is a second chance. Someone up there must’ve seen all the shit I had to put up with and decided to give me an opportunity. To make it right. To bring justice onto those who’ve wronged me. And that’s where you come in, Johnny.” 

“The thing is, when I first began to explore this brand-new land, I didn’t really know what I was doing,” Micah chuckled, “I stumbled into some folk who wasn’t too happy to share some of their money and goods with me. Needlessly to say, I got into some trouble. Nothing I couldn’t handle, of course,” he used the knife to point at John, “but it helped me realize something special about myself.” Micah pointed the knife at his own temple. “There’s something higher, more powerful than the world of men out there. And it’s looking out for me. Guiding my hand, keeping me alive.” 

John frowned. Micah had truly lost his mind. The man had always been dangerous and unpredictable, but this was something else entirely. 

“Can’t you see? It brought me back so I could reclaim what this world stole from me. And it brought you back so I could kill you,” Micah laughed. “You should have died on that mountain, John Marston,” the smile died in a flash. A cold fury taking over his pale face. “I had a plan,” Micah looked progressively angry. Shoulders shaking with it. Gone were the sarcastic smiles and mocking laughter. “But then you showed up and everything went to shit. Years of planning, of steering Dutch in the right direction, all _ruined_. All because of _you._ ” He punctuated the last sentence by shoving the knife deep into John’s thigh, putting all his weight on it. 

All John could do was scream around his gag. 

“We were brothers. Dutch’s boys. But that didn’t keep your lot from stabbing me in the back, did it? But don’t you worry, John,” Micah promised. “You and I, we’ll set things right tonight.” 

Micah grabbed the ice pick. The kitchen’s sterile light shone on its tip. 

John struggled against the restrains until his leg was screaming at him and the ropes were cutting at his skin. He tried to breathe, to calm his hammering pulse. He closed his eyes, pushing against the urge to pass out and pictured Arthur’s hair, golden under the morning light, _Breathe, just breathe._ , he told himself. But the pain was blinding, overwhelming. John bit down on the gag until he tasted blood, wishing he had never left that cabin.

 

* * *

 

Arthur ran, rifle slung over his shoulder. His untiring body drilling through the night. Tree branches cut at his face and arms. Rocks threatened to trip his feet. Arthur barely felt any of it. All he knew was the urge to get to John. It guided his mind and body like a compass. He ran, until he got to the store John had mentioned. Arthur knew the way, he had been there before, always at night. 

He crossed the empty parking lot. The front door was open, but there was no one inside. Something dark stained the door handle. Arthur peered at it. Bloody finger prints, awfully red under the moonlight. 

He fought against the searing panic rising in his throat. 

Arthur turned away from the door, determined to search through the store for anything that could tell him where to go next. 

There was a door leading to a back room. Arthur kicked it open. 

It was a small office. Arthur rummaged through the desk, yanking at drawers and throwing papers to the floor in his hurry. There. A bill. It had a name and a telephone number. Mrs. O’Connor’s. John’s employer. 

Arthur dashed back to the front of the store, paper clutched in a fist. He went for the telephone sitting on the counter and dialed the number down with shaky fingers. 

It rang once, twice, three times. The mechanical sound in Arthur’s ear clashing irritatingly with his own wild heartbeat. 

“Hello?” A tired voice answered. 

Arthur took a deep breath and willed his voice into something reassuring. 

“Mrs. O’Connor, I’m sorry to call so late, but I’m a friend of John’s,” Arthur tried to infuse some of Hosea’s conman charm into his words. All wide-eyed innocence and easy smiles.” You see, we were having a few drinks and he went and overdid himself a little, you know how it is. I’d like to take him home, but he passed out in the car before he could give me the address.” 

“Is he alright? I can be there in a moment--” 

“No, no, there’s no need for that,” Arthur fought not to throw the phone against the wall. “Mrs. O’Connor, please. He’s fine,” Arthur reassured her, knuckles going white around the receiver at the lie. “John wouldn’t want to force you out of your bed over nothing. Just gimme his address and I’ll take him home myself.” _Please_ , he prayed to the woman, _before I lose my goddamn mind and do something really stupid._

She gave him the directions. It was close, and still impossibly far. He wouldn’t get there in time on foot. Arthur dropped the receiver and dashed back outside without another word. 

Luckily, a car was stopping by one of the gas pumps at the perfect moment. Well, lucky for Arthur at least. Not so much for the man driving it. Arthur brought up his rifle, aiming at the man’s chest. 

“Mister, trust me, I like this as much as you do,” Arthur rushed the other man a little impatiently when he stared at the rifle with wide eyes, arms up before Arthur even had to tell him to. “Now, please, move along and step away from the car and things won’t have to get ugly.” The man nodded and stumbled away from Arthur, tripping on his own two feet. 

Arthur got in the car and drove. His time was running faster now. He needed to get to John before the police got involved. 

He could feel the familiar coldness crawling into his bones again, deceivingly slow. Something he hadn’t felt since John had walked into his cabin. 

“No, no, no,” Arthur muttered thought gritted teeth. He pressed harder against the pedal. 

A fury he hadn’t felt in a long time exploded in his chest, painting the walls inside him with something dark and ugly. 

Even with his fractured memories surrounding the other man, Arthur knew, without a doubt, that if something happened to John. 

He would burn this whole fucking town. 

Level it to the ground, until he found the person responsible. 

He’d make them pay, even if it killed him.

 

* * *

 

John was losing a lot of blood. None of his wounds were healing. Not even the superficial ones. He was too dizzy to keep wondering why. 

He tried to pull at the restrains again. His limbs felt heavy and awkward, though. Not responding like they should have. 

Micah cackled from somewhere behind John. He’d stop cutting at John every few minutes to pace around the kitchen. Whistling and mumbling to himself. 

“Oh, you still got some fight in you. I like that,” Micah sneered, watching him struggle. 

John didn’t react. The only other sound in the room was the blood dropping to the floor under his chair from time to time. 

_Dot. Dot. Dot._

Slow and faint, like John’s heartbeat. It was almost soothing. 

Definitely better than the sound of Micah’s grotesque rambling. The man was sounding more insane by the second. Hissing at John over and over that it was all his fault. Telling John about a voice that spoke to him in his dreams. Micah was in the middle of another incoherent bolt of anger, when the front door flew open. 

John startled, snapping his head up at the sound. 

He saw a man, carrying a rifle. A familiar silhouette. John’s mind was suddenly transported to another place, years ago. In a cold snowy mountain, where he had once lied down, accepting his fate. That was, until a broad shouldered silhouette had stepped out of the white curtain. Rifle at the ready, keeping the wolves at bay. A flash of fire, guiding John back home from the cold. Both images crashed together before John’s feverish eyes, leaving clarity in their place. 

Arthur was here. 

He’d come for John, like he always did. 

They made eye contact. 

John felt abruptly calm. His wounds, his blood on the floor, none of it registered anymore. Arthur was there. Everything would be alright. Even if it were too late, even if John died here in this kitchen, a century overdue, it wouldn’t matter. Because he wouldn’t be alone, with Micah’s voice for his final memory. Arthur would be with him this time. John felt his eyes fluttering shut, blood loss catching up to him. 

Arthur, though... Arthur looked anything but calm. 

He stepped into the room. Rifle raised. Tense, with that familiar casual promise of violence burning in his eyes. 

Micah had rushed to John when the door swung open. Now, he pulled at John’s hair, exposing his neck to the cold press of the ice pick. 

Micah was pulling at him. John could feel how furious the other man was, his grip on the blade shaking with it. He cursed lowly behind John. 

“Micah,” Arthur said the name like it was a curse on itself. 

“You?” Micah hissed furiously, reflexively pushing the ice pick closer to John’s neck. John inhaled sharply. 

Arthur remained still. 

“Micah,” he said it again, sounding calm this time, “Let him go. This is between you and me. It always was. Come on,” He stepped a little closer, “let Marston go, so we can settle this.” 

John held his breath as Micah seemed to consider the offer. The fist on his hair eased up a little. 

“Drop the rifle,” Micah demanded, sounded placated, “Drop it and kick it away and then we’ll talk.” 

Arthur did as he asked, putting his hands in the air slowly. “Now, let Marston go, Micah,” Arthur spoke firmly, “It’s me you want.” 

John felt Micah change behind him, relaxing his stand. The hand near his neck pulled away, finally. 

“You always lacked vision, Black Lung,” Micah said amicably, switching his grip on the ice pick, “You see, I’m more than capable of killing you both.” Micah’s hand fell back down, punching John in the chest. 

Arthur let out a low, horrible sound. John looked down, frowning. He saw a wooden handle sticking out of his chest. John looked back at Arthur, confused. He opened his mouth. Ready to ask something, anything, but only blood came out.

 

* * *

 

Time slowed down around Arthur. Blood rushed in his ear, deafening. The edges of his vision darkened, turning the world into a tunnel, with John’s slumped body at the center. He stared at John, willing him to move, to get up. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. _John was wrong_ , he thought, digging himself further into the hole, _none of them were above death_. 

And then, all at once, the black tunnel opened up, and time came crashing back in. 

Arthur saw Micah try to slip away, walking backwards out of the room, deeper into the house. He was laughing, like he’d just told the greatest joke in the world. Like he had no fucking clue about the extent of his mistake, that he was never getting out of this house alive. 

Arthur’s legs moved by their own accord. 

He found Micah standing in the bedroom. John’s bedroom. 

“It’s just me and you, Black Lung,” he said bringing his fists up with a mocking smile. 

Arthur tackled Micah to the ground, using his bigger frame in his favor and not giving the other man any chance to react. He looked down at Micah. Dead eyes and bloodless decaying skin gazed back at him. Arthur thought he could see a hint of fear under the crazed smile and the rotting mask. 

He braced against Micah’s chest and brought his other fist down. Over and over and over. Until the face under him didn’t look like a face no more. Until the body stopped struggling against Arthur’s hold. Until his whole arm ached and the sounds of Micah’s protests died abruptly. 

Arthur let himself fall to the side. Curling away from Micah, away from reality and the images playing in his head. Memories of John, standing outside his rundown cabin, bathed in moonlight. John, in some crappy motel a whole century ago, glaring at him and pulling at his clothes, furious and loving. John bathing with him in a shallow river, happy and trusting Arthur to keep them both afloat. John curling his hands around a cup of coffee and looking at it like it was the best gift in the world. Images of all the things they could have done together now, if they’d had the time. 

John, sitting in that chair, alone with Micah for god knows how long. Arthur closed his eyes against the tears that burned at the back of his throat, threatening to drown him.

 

* * *

 

On the other side of the room, Micah heard a whisper. A wordless voice. His head lolled to the side, painfully. There was something under the bed. A darker shadow against the blackness. He dragged his body slowly to it, gritting his teeth against the pain. His hand curled around it and he fought not to laugh out loud.

 

* * *

 

The sound of a gun being cocked rang in the room pulled Arthur from his thoughts. 

Arthur rolled back to meet the sound. Micah was lying on his back by the bed, holding a pistol in a shaky grip. The mangled face behind the muzzle split open in a smile full of broken teeth. His eyes were so swollen, one of them was completely shut. 

Arthur held his breath. 

The gun went off. 

The bullet from the shaky muzzle missed his face by an inch or two. 

Arthur launched at Micah, grabbing the hand holding the pistol and snapping his wrist like a particularly stubborn twig. When the man opened his mouth to scream, Arthur made him eat the gun. He pulled the trigger, once, twice. 

He got up, looking at the gun in his hands. It had to be John’s, Arthur noticed with a start. The one he had used… when he left the bullet on his living room wall. Micah must have grabbed it while Arthur wasn’t looking. Arthur removed the magazine and dragged Micah out of the way by the leg. He kicked the gun back under the bed, far where it belonged. Where John would have wanted it to stay. 

Arthur marched back into the kitchen. Someone would have called the cops by now. Either the man he robbed or because of the gunshots. He needed to take John’s body away before they arrived. Away from all this, from everyone. Bury him somewhere quiet and beautiful. Somewhere just for the two of them. 

He sank down to his knees in front of John. Picked one of the blades displayed on the table and began to cut at the ropes, as gently as he could. He removed the knife sticking into John’s thigh, willing his hands to stop shaking, his eyes to stop burning. 

He leaned into John. Touched his own cold forehead to John’s burning one. Felt a puff of air against his lips. 

Arthur’s eyes flew open. It was faint, but it was there. 

_John’s still breathing_ , he thought, wondering if he had finally lost his mind. 

Arthur got to his feet in a flash. He spotted John’s telephone and ran for it. He dialed nine-one-one, keeping his eyes glued to John the whole time, afraid to even blink. 

_He’s going to make it. He’s strong and he’s going to make it,_ he told himself over and over. 

Arthur stayed there, holding John’s hand, and taking him in. Yesterday in the cabin, he’d tried not to look. Simultaneously, afraid and fascinated by the sight of his own convoluted dreams come to life. He wasn’t looking away now. He touched John’s face. Mapped his scars, seeking comfort in all the familiar places where scar tissue met smooth skin under his fingertips. Held onto John, listening to his breathing and feeling his heartbeat, until he heard the ambulance pull up outside. Arthur slipped out through the back door, knowing he’d just left his heart and soul back in that room. And silently begging John to come back with them.

 

* * *

 

Arthur stood outside the hospital all night, hidden by the trees. Just beyond the line where forest gave way to civilization. He stood there, waiting. Until dew gathered on his hair and clothes. Until morning birds came to perch on the branches above him, feeling unthreatened by his unmoving presence, as still and old as the trees around them. 

The birds chirped away, happy and uncaring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did proofread this chapter... a million years ago. i hope it didn't somehow turn monstrously bad in that interim, lol.
> 
> Also i'm starting a supernatural AU series for rdr2 pairings that i like (bc i love spooky supernatural things and this game gives us too much of that material for me not to use it in any way!!), so like.... if that's ur thing too hit me tf UP and go crazy with the vampire/werewolves/witches/ghosts etc prompts/suggestions!!


	7. the dirt in which our roots may grow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "you battled hard, the war is won.  
> you did your worst, you tried your best.  
> now it's time"  
> \- mountain hymn

### Three years later

Arthur was packing his things and locking up the cabin for the last time. His remaining possessions were few, fitting easily in a single suitcase. He threw it in the backseat of the old beat-up Honda, driving away without a look back. It was time to move on. He should have done that a long time ago. 

He arrived at the house, frowning when he noticed some animal, probably the damned raccoons, had been digging in the yard again. He sighed. Someone would have to see about fixing that fence soon. This was going to be quick, though. It had to. Arthur just wanted to check on the house before being on his way. No use in lingering too long. 

A trail of muddy boots inside the kitchen made him stop in his tracks. 

The boot prints were coming from outside the house, through the back door. Arthur was staring at it, when a heavy weight collided against his back, making him stagger half a step, and a pair of strong arms locked around his chest from behind. 

“What are you doing here this late?” the voice demanded in his ear. 

Arthur rolled his eyes, in faux annoyance. 

“I’m looking at the mess you made, you slob,” he grumbled and wiggled around, eyes crinkling a little at John’s smile, “when you said you wanted to take up gardening, I thought you meant to do it outside. You know, in the _garden_. Not in our kitchen.” It still sent a thrill through him to refer to this house as _theirs_ , even after all this time. Specially now. With the rest of his things out of the cabin, it was _official._

John just kept smiling, unrepentant as always. 

“I’ll clean that up later,” he said, dismissively. His hands began to trail up and down Arthur back a little, with misleading neutrality, “you took your time.” 

“I was only gone for an hour,” Arthur tried to put up a front. John already had an ego the size of a barn these days. 

He rolled his eyes as if John was the biggest fool in the world. And he was, but Arthur was just as bad, for soon he was melting against the other man despite his best efforts. He leaned down to wipe off John’s grin with a kiss. Truth was, he had been counting the minutes just as much. Nowadays, they were together most of the time, but after a lifetime of close calls, every second was of immeasurable value to them. 

Besides, these open displays hadn’t come easy for John. For a while, John had kept his guard up around Arthur. Even after Arthur had confessed and shared all the bits and pieces of _them_ he had tucked safely away, in his heart and in his journal, John had still been hesitant with his affections. Arthur had taken it all in stride. At first, because he had been too grateful for John’s recovery and his willingness to take Arthur back into his life, botched memory and all. 

And, later, because he _understood_. As the memories of their past slowly returned, Arthur remembered the entirety of their relationship. How it had started, the stolen moments that could only exist in the cover of the night, gone with the sunrise. Always stumbling in the dark, tripping over each other’s shadows and swallowing each other’s gasps. Always looking over their shoulders, always afraid. How Arthur had tried his best not to let it go too far, for John’s sake as much as his own, and how helpless he had been to fight against it every time. How happy and whole every brush of their skin made him feel. And how guilty, too. Always so guilty. 

And how it had ended. With Arthur pushing John away. Putting bars between them, pulling them closed and throwing away the key. He had been determined to cut the ties between completely. At the time he had told himself it was all for John. The less they mattered to each other, the quicker John would move on with his family. But that wasn’t the whole truth. Arthur had pushed John away so fiercely for a simple reason: it hurt too much to watch John build a life with someone else. So, like a wounded beast, he’d lashed out, snarling at the source of his pain until it left him to lick at his wounds. So, Arthur had known John’s reasons to be guarded. He had made a point of washing away those doubts, of making sure John knew what he meant to him and how sorry Arthur was for how he had handled his own fears. It had taken a while, but John eventually opened up under Arthur’s attention, like a flower to the sun. 

And now, here they were. 

John’s hands started to trail from Arthur’s back to other places, pulling him from his thoughts. 

Arthur held his wrists, laughing. 

“I’m late for work and you know it, you fiend.” 

John groaned good-naturedly. 

“I liked it better when you were a hermit,” he pulled away looking for the mop they bought specifically due to John’s new gardening adventures. “How did it go, by the way?” 

“It was quick. Just had to grab a few tools and my work boots,” he retrieved the suitcase from the entryway and put it under the sink with the rest of their tools, “had to stop to fill the tank on the way here, though. Mrs. O’Connor says hi.” 

Arthur leaned against the wall and watched John work, thoughts wandering again. Arthur still remembered how hard it had been for John that first year out of the hospital. After that horrible night and what Micah had done to him. John had been in some kind of intensive care unit, at first. Then they had moved him straight for surgery. _A punctured lung. He’s very lucky to be alive_ , the doctors had told Arthur, while keeping him away and refusing to let him see John. _Only family and spouses._ Arthur had wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. 

John had made it through the surgery, and they moved him to a different room where he had to stay for a couple more months. At least Arthur had been allowed to visit him there, though. Overall, it had been a long year for them, specially John. But he had managed to fully recover in the end, like Arthur always knew he would. 

John was moving easily around the room, now. The stiffness from those first few months all gone. 

He turned around and saw Arthur still there, staring at him like a man caught in a spell. 

“Hey,” he accused, “quit looking at me like some love-sick fool and go to work already.” John started to steer him towards the door. “One of us needs to pay the bills, and I’m a kept man now. You need to pick up the slack.” 

Arthur ruffed at his wording. Back when John was still stuck in the hospital, Arthur had started to work at a local ranch, to keep up with the rent and other expenses. He had started by doing a bit of everything, but now he mostly worked with the horses. It was good work. They’d kept things that way, even after John was fully recovered. John had found so much joy in looking after their home and doing other simple things he never had the time for before, like cooking and carving and now gardening. Neither of them could see a reason to change that dynamic. 

Besides – and Arthur had to refrain every day from saying this out loud, for fear of being kneed in certain places – he liked the thought of providing for John. Of coming home to him and finding what crazy new beautiful thing John had created in his absence. Of knowing John was safe and happy in the security of their home. 

Arthur stood his ground, causing John to stumble into him. He took the opportunity to hold the other man’s face and kiss his cheek. Right on the scars Arthur was so fond of. 

“I’ll go, but we will continue this when I’m back,” he spoke, voice low against John’s lips. His hands went to circle John’s hips, greedy and full of promise. 

“Call in sick,” John demanded, tugging at Arthur’s hair and grinning when the other man just laughed again “I’m serious. You should quit your job, while you’re at it.” 

“Mhm,” Arthur hummed amusedly, “and how exactly would we pay our bills, I wonder?” He continued before John could start suggesting they robbed a bank like in the ‘good ol’ days’, “what’s gotten into you, Marston? You sure are in a funny mood.” Whatever it was, it must’ve been contagious because Arthur felt his own veins thrumming with it. 

“I woke up and you were gone,” John said like it explained everything. 

“To lock up the cabin! We talked about this,” Arthur frowned at the non sequitur. 

“I know!” John was fully laughing now. There was a note of giddiness to it, that made Arthur smile despite his own confusion. 

“You were gone. To lock up the cabin. Because,” John explained like Arthur was a particularly slow child, “this is your home, now. Our home.” 

Suddenly, it all made sense to Arthur. John’s giddiness and infectious affection… Arthur shared the sentiment wholly, and probably would’ve said something embarrassingly sappy, if John hadn’t chosen that exact moment to kiss him silly. 

Thoughts of work flew out of his mind ridiculously fast the moment John’s lips touched his own. Arthur had never been too good at resisting the other man when he got sweet like that. 

All too soon, John was pulling away, mouth moving around words Arthur was too distracted to hear. 

“Huh,” Arthur asked, not very eloquently. 

“I said, you’ll be late if you don’t leave now, you fool,” John laughed in his face, pulling him towards the door again. “We’ll continue this when you’re back,” John repeated his own promise at him. Arthur nodded, distracted by John’s easy laughter, while the other man closed the door on his face with one final grin. 

Later, John would show Arthur his new batch of olives. After many failed attempts (and many other frustrated attempts to use google search), John had finally figured out how to properly cure them in water, until they were edible. They were just too bitter, otherwise. 

The whole process was long and required precision and patience. In the past, John never would have thought he could be good at something like that, so harmless and mundane. That he could enjoy planning and using his hands for something that didn’t involve killing or stealing or gambling. But he knew now that he could. 

Despite all the bumps on the road, every day John woke up feeling glad to be alive. To have been given a second chance and to be able to share it with Arthur. To look in the mirror and see the little changes. A gray hair, a line in the corner of his eyes that he sworn hadn’t been there before. To look at Arthur and see the same; the little proofs of all the time, laughter and new memories they were creating together, now. The irony that something as horrid as a curse was what had granted them the right time and place to make this happen never escaped either of them. 

John thought about it with smile now, as he went back outside, muddy boots leaving their familiar marks, and looked at their olive tree. It was as beautiful as ever and ripe with fresh olives for he and Arthur to pick. It grew taller and stronger every year. In these moments of calm and solitude, John could close his eyes and practically picture its roots. In his mind’s eyes, they looked impossibly long and solid, reaching deep inside the hard ground, searching for nutrients. Twisting and turning, in beautiful intricate ways, and closing its hungry and crushing fingers around the skull and bones of what had once been Micah Bell. 

* * *

"smaller than dust on this map  
lies the greatest thing we have:  
the dirt in which our roots may grow  
and the right to call it home."

\- sleeping at last, north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *buries face in hands* i agonized so hard over this chapter. this is my second fic ever and (bc the first one is still on-going) the first ending i've ever written, so!! phew, i had to just sorta close my eyes and trust my guts i lot here, lol. i wanted it to be as satisfying a ending as possible and i can only hope it brings a fraction of the happy feelings you guys made me feel every week with all your kind words, funny comments and intelligent insights!! i was (still am!!) so intimidated by this whole thing, i honestly don't know if i would have posted anything beyond chapter 1 if it weren't for that feedback. it's nice to know you aren't just throwing garbage in the void or annoying ppl with your ramblings djfhdkjs
> 
> tbh i'm absolutely Not Okay with finishing TBS for good lol (fic ending depression got me good, lads), but it had to end eventually ;w; and, as Mephitztopheles (hi!) pointed out, at least it leaves room for more fics to come! and, boy, are they coming. i'm wrestling with two morston fics rn, so expect new stuff soon <3
> 
> speaking of new fics, i'll leave you all with another morston rec. As the Earth to the Sun by onlyifyourun is really sweet and angsty and adorable and it made me clap like a seal when i reached a certain part. it's a small moment and you might miss it, if you don't know to look for it, but it's about books... a certain book, specifically... a book that, in TBS, Arthur and John have shared growing up. it honestly made me squeal "same universe! same universe!" when i saw that onlyifyourun had had the same idea?? i mean, it's practically canon now amrite, guys. so, anyway, go read her fic and leave kudos and some love and see if you can spot what book i'm talking about!!!!!
> 
> ps: I just made a new twitter just for fic updates and crying over our gay cowboys so hit me UP at @2bhairjohn

**Author's Note:**

> rockstar: *ruins our lives*  
> me: *splashing vodka on the fire* everybody stay calm!!! i know just the right curse for this
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated and fill the author with feverish purpose


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